


Savage Love

by MindWideOpen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Captive white women, Captives, Colonialism, F/M, Native American, Romance, colonial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 192,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindWideOpen/pseuds/MindWideOpen
Summary: Two white women must learn to adapt when captured by Indians following the massacre of 1622.





	1. 1

Martin's Hundred

Wolstenholme Towne

Virginia

Population 137

March 21st, 1622

The weather was frigid when Alice awoke that morning and as she dragged herself out of bed and put her bare feet on the cold floor boards she wanted nothing more than curl up under the warmth of the thick wool blankets. She moved over to stoke the fire, adding another two logs to the cabin would be warm enough when it was time for William to rise. Still rubbing the sleep from her even she padded over to the table and looked through what was left of their food. It would prove to be a difficult spring. The wait for the harvest would be trying for all, but Alice put her faith in God and said a silent prayer as she prepared the best meal she could for her husband and young son. The lord had provided for them through a harsh winter and though the loss of one child had left her hallow for some time, it was through God's will and the joyous sound of William's laughter that she had survived it. When she got on the boat four years ago in London, married to a man she had met the day before, she could not have hoped for a better provider and a kinder man.

Cold air rushed into the cabin as the front door flung open. It was shut softly, as to not wake the child, and Alice smiled over at Lawrence. He was rubbing his hands together and shaking off the cold. His boots left heavy thuds on the ground as he moved to the fire for warmth, peeling off his gloves and holding them out to the flickering flames. Alice picked up the jug of ale and brought him tin cup, accepting a soft kiss to the mouth as she put it into his hands. She shivered at the feel of his cold skin and found her earlier silent complaints about having to leave the warmth of her bed to be quite selfish. Her husband always rose an hour or so before she did, setting off to make sure she would have everything she needed for her daily chores and the caring for their little boy.

"The earth is still soft," he spoke softly, his voice a low rumble, and finished the tin of ale in a single gulp.

"The planting was not too early?" she asked hopefully. He shook his head and gave a smile.

"We will survive the spring," he answered, placing the tin down beside her and touching her waist. He tugged her closer and bent down to place a kiss to her lips. She leaned into him, searching for his warmth amongst his cold clothes, and let her eyes flutter closed. He wrapped her in his arms, large and strong from the hours of chopping wood, the days of harvesting tobacco and corn, and the long days walking to the lake to try and find fish beneath the ice. He moved away from her gently and walked over to their bed. He crawled on top of the blankets, lying down briefly beside their son, gently stroking his little brown locks. Alice smiled and returned to the doe, kneading her fingers hard and continuing her prayers for a warm spring. She still missed English winters. Cold, dark, and rainy, but nothing like she had experienced since coming to these shores. Once the breakfast was ready Lawrence crawled from bed, scratching his scruffy beard with a sigh. He sat down and ate quickly, leaving a quarter of his meal to be added to his wife and son's portions for the day. He was sent off with a wrapped loaf of bread, a kiss to his black beard, and a promise for a visit from his son by mid-morning. As he walked into the forest with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, the sun was just beginning to creep up over the horizon.

Alice had the floor swept, the linen ready for washing, and had gathered enough materials to spend the morning making candles by the time she went to wake William. She hoped that with the summer approaching, this next batch might last longer than the last. He pouted, tried to roll over to go back to sleep, but Alice did not relent and with gentle force got the boy from his sleep and into his morning clothes.

"You do not wish to see, daddy?" she asked him as she pulled his coat on over his little shoulders, the remnants of his breakfast still on his lips. He was skinnier than he was when the summer began, but her spirits were brightened by her husband's words. She had faith that the spring would bring a bountiful harvest and William could look like the healthy little man he was when the weather first began to turn cold.

"I do," he relented with a little whine, letting her put on his mittens. When she had returned from their little barn, gathering what milk their aging cow had to offer, the sun had risen some and there was the promise of a warmer day, but she was unwilling to risk William catching even the littlest of coughs. She could still hear the sound of her daughter's cough, rattling and painful. Every sound of it had ripped out her heart. It had been like a dagger, twisting with every little rattle. The night she died the cabin had been full of silence. She had almost been thankful for it. It only made her cry all the harder the next morning when her husband wrapped the tiny body in a sheet and set out to build her coffin. She had not let him build one until she had actually passed.

"He wants to see you," she told him, tying a little string around each wrist so there would be no separation between his coat and mittens. He waited, blinking sleepily. She smiled softly as she wiped down the corner of his mouth with her apron. "William will you help mummy get ready?"

William nodded excitedly. Lawrence had started early teaching his son how to be a proper man, just as his father had done with him. Helping his mother was something William took great pride in. On the mornings William would awaken as Lawrence crawled out of bed, he would wave goodbye to his father, promising to take care of mummy while he was away.

"Will you bring in a few logs and stack them very neatly by the fire place?" she asked, brushing his hair back and placing the little knit cap on his head, making sure his ears were covered. "Now remember, one at a time and stack them very neatly."

The little boy ran off to collect the logs from the wood shed. Alice cleaned the dining area and had retrieved her cloak by the time William had managed to stack five logs by the hearth. He was panting, red cheeked, and Alice thanked him heartily as they set off for town. His energy had returned. He was a difficult little thing to wake up, but a single chore and he would be up and bounding around for hours. It would not be until late afternoon that he would need to lie down for a small sleep. He ran across the little dirt road as they walked and Alice watched with a happy smile, her basket tucked firmly beneath her arm. She called for him to halt when they arrived by Sarah Thatcher's little plot of land. He had a tendency to wander. His lack of direction, even at the young age of four, bothered Alice. Lawrence assured her it was something he would outgrow. It was normal with children of his age, but too many times Lawrence and Alice had to search the surrounding wood for him because he wandered off past the boundary allotted to him by his mother and got himself terribly lost.

Sarah came out of the front door immediately, a smile on her flushed face and a look of terror in her eyes. Alice smiled at the girl as the girl hurried down the steps. Very soon her mother's head came out of the door, yelling at her about the pig feed. Sarah ignored her mostly and called back dismissively, pushing Alice along down the path.

"You might think she'd let papa slaughter is already," Sarah told her with a shake of the head. "We've spent so much on feed, but the thing is fat and ready to slaughter. I know not for what we wait."

"She wishes to push it out as far as possible, until the harvest."

"If you but saw the thing, Alice," Sarah disagreed. "It will last us the summer if done correctly."

Sarah was seventeen and still unmarried, and although she was a bright girl with a stubborn character and an ability to think things through when she truly desired, she was ruled by her naivete. If she had but a slight better understanding of how the world and those who inhabited it worked, she had the potential to be quite a force. Unfortunately, or perhaps, Alice mused silently, fortunately, she had no suffered the losses many others her age had. By the time Alice was seventeen she'd seen the death of four of her siblings, had suffered the loss of her father, and had been sent across the country alone to marry a man she did not know so he could take her across the ocean. Sarah had spent much of her childhood had Jamestown. This world was more her home than England had ever been, and she was blessed with an important relative at the fort.

"Oh!" Sarah said with excitement. "Look what I made little William!"

She pulled out a pair of gloves from her basket.

"Henry sent us wool just arrived from England. I've lined it with rabbit fur, so to not itch his little fingers. A bit late for the season, I know, but next year surely," she said and handed them to Alice. Alice thanked her and looked up to put her eyes on the boy in question. She was struck with equal parts annoyance, equal parts fear when she ran her eyes along the path and the immediately forest around them and found him nowhere.

"William!" she called angrily.

"Boo!" the little boy shouted, jumping out from behind a tree just a few feet ahead to their left. Sarah jumped in surprise and Alice simply shook her head at the child.

"Oh, sweet Lord in heaven, I thought it might be a savage attack," Sarah smiled, patting the top of his head as he giggled and ran up to latch onto his mother's skirts.

"William, what is my rule?" she asked him. He turned very severe.

"Always in sight," he repeated.

"If you hide, you scare mummy, understand?" she asked. He nodded. "Go on now. In sight!"

He released her skirts and ran ahead, jumping over rocks and logs, picking up sticks twice the size of himself and swinging them at trees with a mighty warrior's cry.

"There I see the future governor of the colony," Sarah said. Alice only smiled. Sarah bean speaking to Alice of the woes of courtship. Her parents wanted her to marry her cousin at the fort, who she met but twice since she had reached womanhood and found him to be rather distasteful. She would much rather marry Timothy Macafoos, but her parents had already informed her that was not to be.

"Love comes after marriage, Sarah," Alice cautioned. "Remember that the most important thing is a strong provider and a hard worker. Do not make the mistake of thinking love will fill your children's bellies."

"You say that having married Lawrence," Sarah lamented. "We will not all be that lucky."

They reached the clearing to the plantation and walked up the little path toward the main gate. A few people were milling about but the majority of the souls present were clustered about by the gate that lead to the plantation. Alice frowned and called William closer. The little boy ran to his mother and walked along side of her, happily swinging their hands together between them, looking around with curious eyes and a tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth.

"What might it be?" Sarah whispered excitedly. Alice was unsure and she said as much, but as they got closer she halted and her came to an abrupt stop. William's mouth opened wide at the sight of them, but Alice's blood ran cold. She did not distrust them because she did not like them, as seemed to be the case with her many of her fellow countrymen. She disliked them because she did not trust them. Her first month in the new world had seen her brother-in-law killed by a vicious savage. She'd not seen the act but she had found the body, hacked and mutilated, the scalp missing from his head, soaked in his own blood. Since then she swore she would never go near a savage if she could help it. They were frightening beings. Many liked to call hem noble but Alice knew better. Not evil by nature perhaps, all beasts had the capability for good, but just as one might not suspect a loving family dog to strike out at the face of a child, so must one be warry with these Indians.

Her father, when he sent her on her way to London to meet her husband and catch her ship, had told her that the savages were not to be feared. Noble savages. Unspoiled by the vices of civilization, but more capable of higher thought than the negro. Alice was not so convinced. She had the opportunity to meet a negro servant in England. They seemed very much the same as white men to her. But these savages…. She saw a propensity for violence within them more akin to beast than man. The neatly dressed and well-spoken negro boy belonging to Judge Condon had been as polite as any Englishman.

"Mummy, mummy," William whispered in harsh excitement, pulling on her hand. Excitement he may be, but still wisely frightened.

"A moment William," she answered, looking around for Lawrence. Sarah's lips parted as she looked them over, some half naked even in this cool weather. Lawrence once told her, after he had buried his brother and they retired to grieve in their newly built home, that they did not feel the cold the way Englishman did. They did not experience many things the way the English did.

They walked up closer slowly, eyes widening and lips parting as she looked over the abundance of food overflowing from Indian baskets. Fruits, fish and meats, all the one hundred and forty-three of them could need to get through to the next harvest. Martin was outside, trying to speak to the one that seemed in charge, but they communicated with some difficulty. Only a very small number of savages had desired to spend enough time with a settler to learn their tongue, and no white man felt the need to speak savage. The savage, a tall lean man with a wrap around his middle and a beaver pelt shawl around his shoulders pressed a finger beneath a dark eye and then circled it in the air. His voice was low and slow, the words so strange to the ear that Alice found herself mesmerized just listening to it. She had heard a man speaking French once. An Englishman who knew German had spoken the language within her ear shot, but even those languages did not possess such a foreign sound.

Martin, a short and kind, if grumpy, man, frowned in confused a moment before realization dawned on him. He happily agreed to let the savages look around their little town, mingle with the workers and servants and even observe their farming techniques. To befriend them now, when they seemed to come bringing gifts would spare them a lot of pain this coming season. Both from raids, attacks on their fields, and hunter's going missing, only to show up weeks later on the shore of the river, scalped and mutilated. Alice was not so convinced by their act of food faith. Even as she accepted a wrap of salted fish, a stack of dried meats and a small pottery bowl of fruit and berries, she looked upon them suspiciously, wondering why now, after years of tense relations and killings on both sides, they would look to befriend them.

"William," she called in a panic when she looked over from her basket to see the little boy pulling on a long braid of one of the Indians. The Indian had a smile on his brown face, not at all fazed by the curious little boy. The braid stretched down from the center of a bald head, the savages body was covered with buckskin leggings and a long dark shirt. "William stop it," she scolded and took hold of his wrist. She did not pull his hand away until she was sure he had released the man's hair.

"Forgive my son," she told the man. He smiled at her and shook his head. He tried to speak to her but she shook her head, pulling her son away in hopes of getting away from him. She spotted Lawrence down by the blacksmith, standing amongst a group of savages, arms folded over their chests, watching him work. They had frowns on their faces, unsure exactly what it was they were watching.

"Husband," she called. She kept a distance from the savages, holding William close, despite his wriggling attempts to break free an examine a savage more closely. Lawrence looked up and upon seeing her, extricated himself from the group. A few of the savages kept their eyes on her a few moments longer than she would have cared for and she lowered her head, trying to shield herself from their gaze. She pushed Lawrence in front of her and turned her face upward.

"Bring me home," she told him.

"Alice, I am busy –"

"You are not in the fields and so you are not working. Bring me home," she again, more forcefully this time. Lawrence glanced over his shoulder at the Indians and then reached out to take the bundles from her. He handed the little basket of fruit to William and told him to carry it carefully for his mother. They were just at the end of the town when Alice came to a stop and spun around, looking for Sarah. She scanned the crowed for her and found her up at the top of the little hill speaking to Martin and a number of savages, an excited smile on her lips. "Martin will be sure she arrives home safely?"

"He will," Lawrence assured her and Alice turned to resume their walk.

"I do not like it," she murmured to him, checking over her shoulder and pulling her cloak more tightly around her.

"We cannot survive another spring of hostility."

"I just think it would be foolish to trust them," Alice replied. William was a ways ahead but stopped at the curve in the path and turned back to face them, waiting for them arrive so he would not creep out of eyeshot.

"Would you have us meet a show of friendship with hostility?" he asked. Alice fell silent. She was not in the mood to argue with her husband and she knew better than to bring up his dead brother. The one and only time he had ever struck her she tried to bring it up as a means of preventing him from going out hunting so close to darkness. Not only might he get lost, fall and hurt himself, but savages might be out there lingering. He had not liked his wife using the death of his brother against him. It was an open-handed slap to the face, one that did not knock her from her feet or bring a bruise to her skin, but it had been hard enough to shock her. He left, equally as stunned by his action, and they never spoke of it again. Even in some of their more heated arguments he had never made to hit her since, but she still refused to test those waters.

"I merely hope that you use your better judgement," she mused. "I do not like them."

"I promise," he said. She turned to look at him and he was smiling from beneath his overgrown beard.

"I trust you, husband," she sighed, looking back toward William. "Wil you return to the fields once I am home?"

"I will."

"Must you?" she asked. "I would feel safer if you remained."

"I'll make sure the rifle is loaded and leave it by the door for you, but you won't need it," he informed her. "I'll tell William he needs to stay inside with you until I arrive home."

She nodded slowly, unhappy with the news but unwilling to press. If he did not work, they got no money, if they got no money, they could not reap the benefits of the Martin's harvest.

"With the spring weather, do you think it is time to try for another baby?" she asked, softly. She looked up at him. "I feel strong again and she would be born before the cold months."

Lawrence smiled at her.

"We'll start once I get home," he said and leaned down to place his scruffy beard to her neck and nip her skin playfully. She giggled and ran a few steps ahead. Spinning back to look at him with a smile on her face.

"Wicked man," she teased. She turned back around and continued to walk, a smile still on her lips.

That night Alice was able to provide her husband and son with a fine meal. She prayed to God to give her the strength to find thanks in her hearts for the bountiful gifts they had received from the Indians. It was far more than they ever would have been able to hope for and she was struck with some shame as she realized how unchristian she was behaving toward them. She was in a fine mood as she kissed the top of her husband's head, pouring him a healthy cup full of ale after his long day in the fields. William was chattering on happily to his father, informing him about the passage of the bible he had read with mummy today. He chewed on a piece of tough fish cheerily, gulping down his tin of ale. He gasped loudly when he came up for ale and then dipped his fish inside, twirling it in the liquid and bringing it back to his lips.

"Did they stay long?" Alice asked, crouching down to wipe William's face. She spoke to William severely before Lawrence could answer, "Stop making a mess."

William frowned at his mother, a pout on his lips, but he was more careful as he continued to eat.

"Most of the day, just milling about," Lawrence answered. He spooned a heaping of beans into his mouth. Alice went to stoke the fire before taking her seat. "Martin spent most of the day trying to communicate with the one in charge there but none of them spoke English."

"Why do you think they chose now?" she asked, sitting down and eating her first bite of food since breakfast.

"Well, that leader there gave us permission to move east last summer. I think he knows it'll be beneficial for us to live together peacefully. His interest in Christianity is hopeful."

Lawrence leaned forward and moved William's cup away from the edge of the table. The little boy slid from his chair and moved across the floor. Both mother and father called him back to the table but he was already crawling beneath the bed in pursuit of some toy or other. Alice sighed and put her face in her hands.

"I am too tired right now," she said, but Lawrence was already up and crossing the floor. Lawrence grabbed him by the legs and dragged him out from under the bed to the loud protest of the kicking boy.

"William!" Lawrence boomed and the child fell silent, looking up to his father with wide eyes. "I'll take my belt to your bottom if you don't get back up in that chair."

William scurried back to the table and pushed his chair closer to Alice, pouting at his father as he retook his seat. He went back to eating silently, nibbling at a piece of stale bread.

"We do not mope in this house," Lawrence scolded. William looked at his mother for help and she reached out and patted his cheek.

It took some doing getting William to sleep that night. He was restless and wanted his mother to stay with him until he fell asleep. She sang to him, told him stories of home, but it was not until Lawrence gave him a sip of scotch that the little boy fell asleep. Alice moved quietly over to the hearth and sat down beside her husband, leaning back in the chair with a tired smile.

"I think I am more tired than he was today," she whispered. He reached out to take her hand in his.

"Summer is coming my love," he answered softly. "My days get longer, your days will get shorter."

"A woman's work never ends," she told him.

"This is a good thing, Alice," Lawrence said. She looked away from the flames and back to him.

"It is just…" she looked back into the flames. Something seems wrong. She shook her head and smiled at him. "I trust you."

He smiled and raised her hand in his, bringing her knuckles to his lips to kiss warmly. Gently he lowered it, their hands still entwined between them. They fell silent and both stared into the flames before them. The crackling lulled Alice off to sleep her eyes too heavy to keep open, but still, a feeling of apprehension was nestled deep between her ribcage.

He pressed the tip of the dagger to his thumb, listening to the crackling fire as he sought refuge from the frigid spring air beneath his mass of beaver pelts. Those around him were silent, readying themselves for the morning that lay ahead. In just a short few hours the slaughter would begin. Screams would pierce the crisp spring air and blood was soak the ground.

A hum started in his throat and he swirled the knife with a gentle force. He felt the little prick of pain but continued. He breathed in deeply, eyes closed, and tried to focus on the sound of the owl in distance, cooing softly to those who took the time to listen. A little breeze wafted by and he pulled his beaver pelt more tightly around himself.

It was the manner of it that he found distasteful. To kill in battle was no great horror. He longed to reach the status of Megedagik. Those that had perished beneath the force of his club or the cut of his blade never kept his eyes from closing at night. They had never haunted his thoughts. But he had never before been asked to know his enemy. He had never before been asked to gain their trust, to kill them with their own weapons. He hoped when the time came, it would be like any other battle.

These white men were dangerous. They took what was not there's and reacted with force when pushed. The well-being of his people was at stake and he trusted Powhatan to see them through this. The color of their skin did not matter to him. Their strange tongue did little more than amuse him and their odd means of living was interesting, but not something to despise. It was their unwillingness to leave that aroused their ire.

Kill many now and spare more later,Powhatan had said. He took a deep breath and gave a nod. Pressing his chin to his chest he took in a deep breath. When he looked up his eyes opened and he turned his head to look around the little camp.

Only a few fires burned still. Many had fallen to sleep. Other's had slipped off into the woods to find strength and guidance from the great spirit. Most remained awake, speaking softly to one another, careful not to make too much noise. But these white men were ignorant. There would be none coming to find them this night.

"You look troubled."

He looked up to Samoset.

"I am not troubled," he responded. "I am preparing."

He looked down to the knife and twirled it, inching it a bit further into his skin.

"Megedagik is right," he added and looked to his right. He found the proud warrior by a dim fire, staring into the flames silently. His brothers sat on either side of him, all sharing a different mother, and his cousin before him. The three spoke softly to one another. One made a wrenching motion with his blade, bringing a smile to the other's lips. All but Megedagik smiled. He envied their excitement. They had not been tasked to go into the town and offer gifts of peace. They would know no life that they would be ending tomorrow.

They were ready for battle already. Megedagik sat bare chested before the flames, his bear pelt draped across his shoulders. Their shaved heads and roached hair, painted faces and ornate bodies marked them for they were. A wave of awe washed over him as he looked to Megedagik. He who kills many.A name given to him by Powhatan himself. He was everything Ahanu hoped to be one day.

He looked back to Samoset. He raised his bleeding thumb.

"Do white men bleed red?" he asked.

"Of course they do," Samoset responded. He looked down to his blade. This was a chance to prove himself. He looked back into the flames. His closed eyes once more. A deep breath was sucked into his lungs. His grip tightened around the handle of the blade. His bones tingled and his blood grew hot. He was ready.


	2. 2

II

Alice smiled kindly as she walked past Edmund. He was jamming the bolt into the frame of the door, trying to force it to keep from scraping the floor when it swung shut. His ruddy cheeks were redder than normal as he bit into his bottom lip hard. His arms trembled, fighting the force of the bolt and trying to jam it back into place. He finally released it with a grunt and a soft curse. The day had grown warm and the young man had discarded his coat some time ago. Even with his coat removed, the force he needed to apply to the bolt had his muscles trembling and his shirt soaked through with circles of sweat.

"Begging your pardon, Mistress Dansby," he apologized and gazed up at the door frame.

"Oh, do not trouble yourself on it," she forgave him for the curse and slipped past him with the basket of linen in her arms. "Before you go, you're to sit for a bite to eat. I won't hear a word against it."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed and looked back up to the bolt. He was the carpenter's boy. The black smith's nephew. He had some knowledge of both, but he was far from a master in either profession. Just sixteen, it would soon be time for him to choose his path. There was little optimism throughout the town, but Alice thought he had a kind heart and willingness to help those in need. She set aside a special prayer for him at night, that he might find his way soon.

"Just off to the stream," she told him and stepped outside. She called to William, who was running too close to the tree line. He hurried back and waved to his mother happily. Alice hummed as she moved through the little path to the slow trickle of water. She washed the clothes thoroughly, taking her time to enjoy the warmth that was beginning to fill the air. A few weeks longer and spring might even decide to show itself. The snow had melted, but the chill hung in the air.

When she finally rose with the damp clothing, a chill was just starting to settle into her bones. She walked back along the path and searched for William, but she found him not playing in the clearing, but instead standing by the home happily bouncing up and down on his feet. She found the savage next and her blood ran cold. She did not trust them. They did not know their God; They could not possibly understand anything good and moral.

"William!" she called, hurrying closer. The savage turned his head, a smile on his face. He was dressed simply. The wrap around his middle, chest covered with animal skin and his head shaved, save a long strip down the center of his head.

"It is all well, Mistress Dansby," Edmund called. "My father says they only wish to befriend us."

He motioned with his head and added softly, "he has no weapons."

Edmund smiled at the savage and extended his hand. The savage took it, their hands clasping the other's wrist in a sign of friendship. Alice slowed, her hands tightening around the straw basket and she nodded slowly. She looked down to William and jerked her chin to the side.

"Inside now, William," she ordered softly. The boy gazed up at the savage in wonder, a smile on his face, and slipped past him. Alice did the same, keeping her hard, distrustful gaze on him as she moved to the clothing line. The savage said something, motioning to the door. She watched from a distance as his brown fingers touched the bolt in question. Edmund tried to explain the problem, his own fingers forcing their way along the bolt. He motioned with his hammer and shrugged. The savage extended a hand. When Edmund shook his head, trying to convey his misunderstanding, the savage gently reached out and took the hammer from him. Alice gazed around the sheet she was hanging, moving the clothes pin slowly.

The savage raised the hammer and examined the bolt a moment longer. Her wedged the hammer in the doorframe and leaned against the door, and with a sudden lurch of his body, shoved the door against the frame and jerked the hammer. When he stepped away, he grabbed the edge of the door, opening and it and closing it without a single scrape against the floor.

"Ah-ha!" Edmund called triumphantly, slapping the savage on the shoulder. "You must show me how you did that. Did you see, Mistress Dansby? The savage fixed the door! Alarming is it not? As they live in –"

It was a single motion. A blank face. A crushing blow. The savages arm lifted and with devastating power, the hammer caved in the young man's skull with a sickening smack. Edmund's head jerked to the side, eyes widening, and hit the ground with a loud thud. The savage looked down at him a moment.

There was absolute silence as Alice stumbled away from the clothing line, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. The sound of Edmund's moans soon followed. Not yet dead, the boy somehow managed to get to his feet. He was hunched forward, stumbling toward her. To find her aid or escape the savage's violence was unclear. His feet shuffled across the cold ground. He tripped. He stumbled. He fell through the sheet she had hung. Alice tried to catch him, but his body fell forward, the life leaving him.

She went falling to the ground. Oxygen came rushing from her lungs. The sheet covered her face and Edmund's body pinned her to the ground. There was a sickening moment of chaos. Her arms flailed and her legs kicked. The sheet was suffocating her. She couldn't breathe. She would die right here, beneath Edmund's dead body.

But suddenly the sheet was gone from her face. Her lungs were once again willing to take in oxygen. The savage was coming toward her slowly, a smile on his face. She pushed feebly at Edmund. Blood poured from his shattered skull onto her chest. She could feel it sliding down her neck. Finally, she was able to roll him off her. Her feet got caught in the sheet, now stained red with poor Edmund's blood. He paused as she extricated herself, but just before she could pounce to her feet and run, he made a motion backward. A jump. Crouched low. A smile on his face, a wildness in his eyes.

She looked toward the house. Her heart plummeted to her feet. Her blood went cold. Her skin, now white.

"No," she told him. He smirked and made another jump toward the house. He moved the hammer from hand to hand.

She broke first. He reached out an arm but she darted past him, through the front entrance. William began to cry as she burst through the door. She grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the corner. Just as the savage came in through the door, a murderous grin on his lips, she turned, musket in hand, and fired. It fired in her hands, startling the savage greatly. William continued to wail.

She did not take the time to see if she hit her target. The gun was too inaccurate, he was too far away, she shot too little. She dragged William behind her, gun still in hand, and raced from the home. William screamed. Even if they got away, they could not hide, but she pushed on. She had to get to the village. As long as she could get to the village.

She glanced back over her shoulder. The savage was not following behind.

"William, be quiet," she tried to silencing him but she knew they could not stop. She did not know if it was dead. She prayed it was so.

_I beg of you lord, let him at least be maimed._

She checked over her shoulder as they got to the edge of the clearing. Her heart seized once more. The savage was running toward them, bloody hammer in his left hand. The sleeve of his right arm soaked with blood.

"Come now, William," she breathed and continued to run. She finally stopped to pick the child up in her arms, but she struggled to lift him. She almost tripped but she kept on her feet. She could hear the savage coming closer with each passing moment. His footsteps turned louder, his breathing heavier. Finally, she released William, putting him back to the ground and shoving him roughly to the side. He stumbled backward and hit the ground hard. He continued to wail.

"Run to town, William!" she screamed. She turned. The savage was close now. "William! Go find, daddy!"

The little boy obeyed, sweet child that he was, and began running down the dirt road. Alice turned fully toward the savage. He was running toward her, right shoulder hunched, bleeding badly. She waited before she lifted the musket, giving him as little time as possible to prepare. She swung the musket as hard she could, the butt end of the gun colliding with his head as it had poor Edmunds. Only this lacked the force. He stumbled to the side in shock. Dark eyes wide he looked to out in a daze. She considered running again, but forced herself to remain. She moved forward, swinging the musket again. She missing his head, so badly did her arms tremble, but it collided with shoulder. He stumbled to the side again, still partially gazed. She glanced back to see how William had gotten, readying to swing again, but her hesitation was all the savage needed. As she raised her arm to swing the musket he reached up, seizing it in his hand. Shot and dazed she was still no match for his strength.

She tried to rip it away but he jerked it free. Tossing it to the side he looked at her, rage covering his copper face. She swallowed thickly and considered her options. Run and she brought him back to little William, fight, and she would surely die. She darted back into the woods. She could hear him behind her. Tree branches being forced to the side, twigs breaking beneath their feet. It would give William the time he needed to get to safety.

He took her down with a tackle. She hit the ground hard and once again the air left her lungs. This time she recovered more quickly. There was little thought going on in her brain. Perhaps not at all. All she knew was she had to survive. Her fingers ended up in the savage's eyes, but only her thumb was able to sink into the socket.

He let out a screech. Her other hand moved to yank at what hair he had. Her thumb tried to sink more deeply into his skull. She suddenly felt a blinding pain on her face. She saw nothing but white. Her arms fell slack. She felt warmth spreading from her nose. His hand closed around her throat and he pulled her up. He slammed her back down, her head slamming into the dirt. We a rock beneath her head she would be dead. Luckily, the earth here was soft.

Still it hurt. He raised her head again. Her skull was forced back down into the ground. His hand tightened and she couldn't breathe. She finally found the use of her hands. She found his eye socket again, slamming her palm into the bleeding hole. He cried out and his grip on her lessened some. She was able to slide away from him and get to her feet. She stumbled forward, coughing violently. Her mouth was filled with the taste of copper. It poured from her nose and she reached up. She hurried forward, unsure where she was going. It took everything in her to keep going. One step then another. One more, another.

She heard him coming after her, screaming something at her. She moved right and began to run again, but it was more of a jog.

"Mama!"

It was the terrified shriek of a frightened child. Her heart shattered at the sound of it and all her hope escaped her. She saw William, huddled about ten feet in front of her, crying, red cheeked and shaking. Lost.

She turned, ready to face the savage one more.

"Town, William," she said as loud as she could. Her throat hurt. She raised a hand and pointed. It was then she realized she had the hammer in her hand. "That way."

The savage came toward her, eye lid closed, but blood poured from the socket. She raised up the hammer, ready to defend herself when he attacked. She was still trembling. She coughed. Her head pounded. The savage lowered his hand and lowered himself, watching her critically.

"William," she croaked. "Run."

The boy stayed still.

"Go!" she screeched. The boy turned and ran once more. She took a breath and rushed forward, surprising the savage. She swung the hammer and he raised to stop her, but in his shock that the weakened woman would make the first move, he missed, the and hammed jammed his fingers. He cursed and moved forward but she swung again. The hammed glanced his jaw and he stumbled backward. He let out a screech and hurried forward. She tried to dart from the side but he was too fast. Once more she was forced onto the ground. The hammer fell to the side and she tried to reached for it. He could have killed her then if he simply picked up the hammer. Instead, he closed his hands around her throat once more, face contorting as he began to squeeze. He lifted her head again, trying to bash her head against the root beneath her. But every time he lifted her up, his hands shifted, and she sucked in a breath, prolonging her misery.

It also gave her time to seize the hammer. She swung with the last of her draining energy. It lacked force, but it collided with his cranium and he fell to the side. She scrambled, taking in a loud, painful breath. She straddled him, lifting the hammer in her arms, ready to end his life without a shred of regret.

"Mama!"

She looked up. She froze. There was her little William, think blond hair held tightly in the bloody fist of another savage. A sob left her, two tears spilling from her eyes. She was pushed off the savage beneath her. He got to his feet and she managed to get to her knees, but his hand slid into her hair, yanking her head to the side.

She lifted her arms before he might kill her, imploring the savage across from her.

"Please!" she cried. There was silence. William wept softly, calling for his mama. "Please, spare my child."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to reach any ounce of humanity within the beast before her. He blinked at her. His head was shaved, save for a small circled at the back of his skull, circled by red porcupine quills. A sharp piece of wood pieced his beneath his nostrils and his eyes were painted blank, a line extending from the center of his cranium down his face, over his nose, and stopping at his chin. On his hands were rings, on his wrists bracelets, on his arm, a golden band. Several earrings hung from his ear. He had a knife to her little boy's soft throat.

"I beg you," she pleaded softly. Her lower lip trembled. "I beg you, let the boy go. _Please._ "

He looked down at the child, then over his shoulder.

"William," she choked. "Do not weep, William," she whispered. "Please, it will be alright."

The boy tried to run to her and Alice's heart broke. She looked back up to the decorated savage.

"Please," she whispered. She touched her heart and motioned to the child. "Please."

The savage she had maimed yanked at her hair as he spoke to the other savage. Alice swayed but her eyes remained on her little boy. The other savage said something and released the boy. He ran to Alice and she wrapped him in her arms, a smile coming to her face.

"Thank you," she said to the second savage. He came forward and took the boy from her arms. William cried for her but she shook her head. "Go to town now, William. Go find daddy."

She reached up to seize the second savage's hand. She pressed her face to his copper skin, gazing up at him. He stared down at her, a frown on his face, dark eyes impossible to read.

"Thank you," she told him. He removed his hand from her and barked something at the other savage. The savage with the bleeding eyes lowered his head and released her hair. She felt a surge of hope. Perhaps she might live through this. The bleeding savage moved away and she hung her head, shoulders hunching. She opened her eyes and found William still standing there.

"Go now, William," she whispered. "Run to daddy."

The bleeding savage turned to look at her, a snarl on his face. She looked up at the savage that saved them. He was looking toward the other. He said something. Shouted it. She looked over. She saw William's hair seized in the savage's hand. She saw the hammer raised.

After that, she couldn't really remember anything else.

* * *

Sara was out hanging linen when the savage came to speak to her father. He had spoken with him at great length in town the day before. Her father smiled at him and raised a hand greeting, welcoming him onto their land. Her mama and papa were skeptical, but both believed that the savages were trying to make good on the hostilities of the past. When her father had returned from town this morning with the eggs her mama had asked for he told them that many of the savages had returned to converse and mix with the towns people.

"Ma… Matuunaaga?" her father asked. The savage smiled happily, dark eyes shining with pleasure. He gave a nod and touched his bare chest.

"Matunaaga," he repeated. He glanced over at Sarah, eyes still smiling. She blushed and reached for her bonnet, placing it back on her head and covering her hair from his view. His eyes were still on her when her father spoke again, bringing his gaze back.

"Ah, here," her father said with a smile and moved over to his work bench. It was just outside the kitchen, where he would chop wood. Sarah stepped around the hanging sheet and walked closer as her father showed him his different tools. The Indian seemed quite interested in them. He laughed as he examined some, unsure what they were or how they could possibly be used.

Her father was trying to explain to someone who could not understand him the difference between the scythe and sickle. Sarah slipped inside, unsettled by the Savage's gaze when his eyes landed on her. She looked out the kitchen window curiously. She washed a pot that had already been cleaned.

It was with horror that she watched the savage raise the sickle and plunge it without even a change of expression into her father's throat. She dropped the pan but she did not hear it hit the floor. Her father's eyes grew wide and just as the sickle blade was pulled from the soft flesh of his neck, her father's hand clutched at the hole in his throat. Blood came spurting from between his fingers.

It seemed like an eternity passed before he collapsed to the floor. The savage examined the sickle and then turned to look up at Sarah through the window. Her blood ran cold and she stumbled backwards.

"Mama!" she called. "Mama!"

Her mother came hurrying from the back bedroom, a look of concern on her face.

"What is it child?" her mother asked, coming to her and placing hands on her cheeks.

"Papa… he… mama," Sarah said, tears coming down her cheeks in torrents. The door flung open to the side and both women let out a shriek of fear. The savage smiled and raised a finger to his lips. Blood still slipped down the sickle, dripping onto the floor beneath his feet.

"Sarah, the back door," her mother whispered. Sarah shook her head, clutching onto her mother. The savage looked around the home, comfortable standing just in front of the door.

"Sarah, _go_ ," he mother said and pushed Sarah toward the back bedroom. She hurried toward it but the savage was on her in a second. She was unsure how he even possessed such speed. She cried out in pain as his hand grabbed onto her bonnet, a fistful of hair falling prey underneath. Her mother cried out and ran to her rescue, but it seemed just as fast as her father's life had been robbed from him, so was her mother's. The sickle did not sink into her flesh as it had her father's, but instead slit the skin open, opening her flesh and letting her blood pour out onto the floor.

A sob left Sarah, a desperate cry of disbelief. She was thrown onto the floor with a heavy thud, her breath leaving her body. The savage straddled her, the sickle placed to her throat. She felt the warmth of her parents' blood on her neck and the tears continued to fall down her cheeks.

He said something to her but she did not listen. All she could do was continue to cry. A powerful hand closed around her face and he barked at her. Her eyes fluttered and though she still cried, her breath coming out in short little pants, she was able to look at him.

He raised a finger to his lips to silence her. She nodded, swallowing thickly, and her eyes closed again. Her hands were bound tightly in front of her and he shoved her into a corner with little care. She watched him as he ransacked her home, looking for anything of value. He took a sip of the wine, made a face and dropped the jug. It went falling to the floor with a smash. She moved her gaze to stare at her dead mother where she lay on the floor.

Blood still oozed slowly from her throat. Her eyes were open and blank. He walked right past her to go to the back rooms. The moment he was out of sight she got to her feet and slowly walked out of the house. She was as silent as she could manage as she walked past her father's corpse and made the tree line. She circled the house once, putting herself on the opposite side of any windows he might be able to look through. Just as she began to run, hands still tied tightly behind her, she heard her front door open and the savage come chasing after her.

His hand was large and sweaty as it closed around her arm. He used more force than need, whipping her around hard and slamming her onto the hard dirt below. Her breath escaped her as she landed hard on her stomach. He knelt down over her, saying something to her in his strange tongue. She ignored him, placing her face into the dirt and letting it drink in her tears. Off in the distance, her home went up in flames.

* * *

Megedagik watched the little boy fall to ground. The white woman did not make a sound. Only the sound of fragile bone shattering into pieces pierced the quite morning air. The broken little body lie crumpled on the forest floor, face down in the dirt. The fabric on his head was turning dark as his blood seeped from the ruined flesh. He turned his eyes away from the disturbing scene but found himself greeted with as heart breaking a sight. The white woman, still purple from lack of breath, eyes red with broken blood vessels, nose warped, and skin turning black, stared at the sight of her dead child in silence. Her bloody lips lay open, jaw hung wide, and not a blink came to her shocked eyes. Her brow knitted and she turned her head. She looked off into the forest, as if she might find an answer there. Her eyes darted from side to side as she tried to come to terms with what she just saw, but he knew one never came to terms with witnessing the violent death of their own child.

He tore his eyes away from the broken woman and settled his harsh gaze on Pajackok. _He has an evil heart, indeed._ He stood there, looking at the woman with one good eye, a vicious, satisfied snarl on his bloody face.

"You've shamed yourself twice this day," Megedagik said. He turned his good eye away from the woman to look back at him. He had the presence of mind to remove the snarl from his face and look to the ground. Megedagik knelt down before the woman, pealing the top of her bonnet away from her sweaty forehead. Her hair was damp beneath the dirty fabric. He looked over her face. He could hardly imagine what she looked like prior to the injury she had incurred. His rage swelled within his breast and he rose.

"Go and find a means of digging a hole," he told Pajackok. He put up no resistance and with a hand to his missing eye, jogged off in the direction of the white homes. Megedagik crouched down before the little body and pressed his hand to the back of his head. He could feel the warmth of his blood as it continued to seep from his skull. The bone was shattered and caved inward. It was the spirit's gift to the mother that he wore such a covering. He closed his eyes, wished safe passage upon the child, and then looked back to the mother. She had crumpled, sitting on her feet with knees bent, her blood stained hands resting in her lap.

He watched her for a passing of time, indeed, his gaze remained on her until Pajackok returned with a shovel. He was curious to see when she might break. When the realization would finally hit her that it was the dead body of her son lying face down in the dirt that she was gazing upon. He thought he saw it once, the quivering of her lip, the twitch beneath a swollen eye, but she only tilted her head, red eyes shifting a fraction. She stared into the nothingness silently. Pajackok returned silently, a shovel in his hands. Megedagik collected the tiny body into his arms. He thought of his own son and sent another withering gaze toward the shameful warrior.

"We go now," he told the mother. She looked up at him, no comprehension in her gaze. He was about to speak again when she got to her feet. She moved slowly, legs trembling, but got to her feet without the need for assistance. He began to walk closer to camp, fearing that a fleeing towns-man might come upon them and attempt to free the woman. His thirst for killing had left him for the day. She followed silently. There was no need to bind her. She'd not abandon the body of her child. He was sure of that. He was sure to find a spot to bury the child before they returned to camp. He had no desire to make a spectacle of her.

They arrived at a spot he thought suitable and ordered Pajackok to begin to dig. He received no objection. Megedagik found the woman seated against a tree and crouched before her. He extended out a hand, placing a single finger beneath her chin and lifting her face upward so he could examine it. A pupil was too large. She would live. He removed his hand from her and got to his feet. He stood by grimly, watching Pajackok dig the hole. It was not as deep as it should have been, but once Megedagik was satisfied the body would not wash up in a storm and could not be dug up by animals he called to the woman to say her goodbyes to the child.

The woman looked up in a daze and then leaned forward. She crawled towards the boy, her muscles not able to will her to her feet. She settled down in front of the boy, gently pressing her hand to the top of his head and bending down to place her lips to his forehead. He turned his eyes back to Pajackok. The young warrior watched the woman with her dead child, a happy tilt to his lips. Megedagik continued to watch. He was mistaken if he thought his punishment was over.

The woman spoke. Her voice was naught but a painful wheeze. She picked up his little covered hands and brought them to her bloody lips. Her swollen eyes closed and she swayed a moment but did not fall. She closed her eyes and prayed a moment. When she turned her gaze back to him and gave a tired nod of her head, her eyes were nearly swollen shut.

It was with great care that he knelt down and took the child into his arms. Even dead, the body was light. She crawled over to the hole as he carefully laid the child within. His body was beginning to turn stiff. He took the shovel from Pajackok and waited. She stared down at the child a few moments before lowering her head and closing her eyes. There was blood seeping through the back of the white fabric she had wrapped around head. He buried the boy himself.

She did not move again until the dirt covered the boy's body. It was then that a sickening moan of devastation came from her closed mouth. Her face tilted upward to the heavens and he shoulders shook. A crushing moan of indescribable loss continued as she leaned forward and submerged her hands in the dirt that covered her boy. His eyes closed as he listened to her. He let her grieve for a time, but a chill was beginning to take hold of the air and a cool breeze had his skin erupting into a mass of goosebumps. He watched a shiver course through her tiny frame and he walked to her. She turned to look at him as she knelt down, her face swollen, tear stained and bloody.

"We must go," he told her. She pulled her dirty hands from the fresh soil and pressed them down onto the hard ground. With trembling muscles she pushed herself up to her feet, her weakened gaze landing on the man that had killed her chin. Megedagik still as her chin lifted, the eye that could still open hardening with a powerful hatred. He followed her gaze and then reached out, placing a hand to her shoulder.

"Maska-anna," he called her. She said nothing. She simply took a step past him and continued on the direction they had been walking, in the direction of camp. His eyes followed her a moment in silent admiration. He walked past Pajackok, one last look of disgust on his face, and followed Maska-anna back to camp.

* * *

Sarah was shoved to the ground beside another seated woman she did not know. There four of them seated along the tree line, Sarah included, but there was no a face amongst them she could recognize. She turned her face back to her raw wrists, bound tightly with the strange rope, and tried to collect herself. She tried to pray, but the sound of the savages speaking to one another continued to pull her out of her concentration. Occasionally, her puffy eyes would look up to examine them. Some painted. Other's undressed. Some wrapped up snugly in the cool weather. She hated every single one of them and as she found the murderer of her parents once more, standing amongst a little group of friends, smiling widely and shrugging as he spoke. He looked toward her once, and though she looked down as quickly as she could, she heard him and his friends coming toward them in their corner.

She shook slightly as she waited for them to arrive and suddenly she had four savages knelt in front of her, speaking amongst themselves and laughing. Her parents' murderer reached for her bonnet. She raised up her bound fists and knocked his hand away forcefully. He stared at her a moment before he hit her soundly in the face. Her head jerked to the side. There was a pain in her neck. She saw stars. There was some conversation between the four savages. Some voices sounded angry. One or two laughed. Before she could recover her bonnet was being yanked from her head and her hair was visible to the young savages. Though all older than her by the looks of it, they were certainly young men, and tears of shame pricked at her eyes as their fingers touched and tugged at her hair. A fat tear gently rolled down her cheek and a gently hand moved to brush it away.

A savage spoke, another laughed, and when she chanced a glance up at her tormentors the one that had brushed the tear from her chilled flesh was shoving the murderer to the side. He settled himself in her direct line of sight and smiled at her. She looked down immediately. She did not want a smile from him. She did not want a smile from any of them. But when she tried to lower her face to the ground his hand reached out and gently seized hold of her chin. He lifted her face back up, and as she opened her tearful gaze he patted his mouth with raised eyebrows. He reached to his side and procured a little pouch. Upon opening it, he poured what looked like an array of nuts into her bound hands. He patted his lips again and, despite herself, her stomach growled angrily and she raised the food to her lips.

They continued to speak as she eat, their tongue beyond foreign to the ears. One of the savages reached for her skirts and she kicked at him. His eyes widened, a look of mock outrage on his face and a large hand wrapped around her ankle, yanking her foot toward him, and although her skirts stayed down, her legs were forced apart and a cry of terror escaped her. The savage that had offered her the bit to eat scolded the other, but he himself reached out to pet her hair. She tried to shy away, but his hand closed around her ear, holding her like one might a child. He leaned in, placing his nose to her hair and inhaled deeply. A shiver of disgust coursed through her and she shook her head. Another tear fell from her face.

She feared the outrage that might come. To some, these men were noble savages, untouched by the vices of civilization, but in tune with the serenity and childlike ignorance to be fund in nature. And to others, vicious beasts, naught but animals that acted upon their baser desires: violence and lust. She hiccupped as another smothered sob passed her lips. The savages hand released her ear, the other let go of her ankle. She tried to curl into a little ball, knees pressed close to her chest, head angled downward, but soon another hand was on her chin.

She jerked her face to the side when she saw it was the man that had murdered her parents. She spat at him on impulse. He blinked in surprise, but he might not have been so frightfully angry if the others had not erupted into such a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He took in a breath fought the snarl that was trying to take hold of his face, and raised his hand once again, but this time, what was once before and open hand, was a closed fist. She braced herself, ready for the violent blow that was to come from this sub-human beast. But instead of the painful blow of fist to flesh she heard a smacking sound. The one that had taken hold of her ear, brushed the tear away from her cheek, and offered her the morsel to eat, had the murderer's wrist in his hand, halting his punishing fist from completing its work. He raised a hand to try and calm the other, speaking to him softly.

She looked down, wanting nothing more than for them to leave her alone, but they lingered. Another hand pulled a strand of her hair. She tried to pull her hand away but another gripped the back of her neck. A whimper left her and a tear fell down a cheek. There was some conversation, glances of their shoulders toward a group of painted savages and they got to their feet. A sigh left her as they moved away, back to a fire a few feet away. She closed her eyes, another hot blob of liquid sliding from between her puffy eyelids. She lowered her face and pressed her hands together, pouring her soul into her pleas with God.

"That one is looking at you."

She looked over to the woman beside her. She was young. Older than Alice. She looked over to the savages. One still looked at her, lips turning up into a smile as her eyes founds him. She looked down immediately.

"He likes you."

"Watch yourself."

Sarah turned to look at the woman who spoke. She had to lean forward and look down the line. She was an older woman. Forty, perhaps a few years younger, with graying hair and tired eyes.

"You'll end up a whore for a savage."

Sarah looked back to him, lips parting in horror.

"Better one than five," the first woman muttered. Sarah looked down, a tear trailing down her nose. A savage stepped by, barking at them angrily. They all fell silent but Sarah looked up to the savages that had been tugging at her. Her stomach turned and she looked back down, putting her hands together for another plea to God to keep her safe.

She jumped when suddenly there was a savage before her again. She looked up with wide blue eyes. It was the savage that had been looking at her. Half his head was shaved. The middle of his hair was shorter, but straightened, stuck up to the sky. The other half of his head was covered with long black hair, down past his shoulders. He had a smile on his face and had a strip of meat in his hand. He held it up but she only stared. He tapped his lips with a finger and held out the strip of beef with the other. She took it from him and she waited. When he did not leave she raised it to her lips and took a nibble. It was not until she tasted it that she realized how hungry she still was.

"Thank you," she said softly. One of his friends called to him. The others laughed and she looked down. She brought the food back into her mouth and the savage put her bonnet back on her head. He got back up and walked down to his seat. He sat down beside the man that had murdered her parents. He put a fur over his shoulders, laughing loudly at something that was said to him. She raised the beef back to her lips and nibbled, closing her eyes and thinking of her parents. Her cheeks turned wet once more. She felt a shoulder press to hers. She did not look up or open eyes.

"If I were you, I'd do what that one says," the woman said softly. "For your own sake."

Sarah did not respond. She simply kept her face angled toward the ground, silently chewing on the tough strip of beef she had between her lips.

Ahanu looked up from the scalp when he saw the white woman come stumbling into camp. A few others got to their feet, anxious to subdue the fleeing woman that somehow managed to find them, but all slowly lowered themselves when they found Megedagik following close behind. The woman looked a mess. A necklace of black, purple, and blue circled around her neck. One eye was swelled shut, the close to it. Her nose was wrenched to the side. Dried blood covered her upper lip and mouth.

"What's the good of bringing back a woman that looks like that?" Melkedoodum murmured. Chogan and he stifled a laugh but Ahanu not dare. He stared at Megedagik as he stepped beside the woman. It was impossible to guess her age, to know if she possessed any beauty. And Megedagik had two wives already. It was odd he would need a white woman to entertain himself with.

Megedagik's eyes burned as Pajackok walked past him and the woman. Ahanu's eyes followed him as he sagged against a tree and looked back to Megedagik. Everyone was silent as he stopped the white woman.

"This woman," he began, voice measured. "Defeated Pajackok in battle."

A murmur went through the camp. Many turned their heads to look to Pajackok. Some openly allowed their mouths to open in surprise. Chogan was one. His mouth open, face curving upward into a nervous smile, and he covered his mouth with a hand. Ahanu kept his face blank and turned to examine Pajackok. His jaw trembled as he fought a snarl. Inteus was already kneeling beside him, examining his bloody eye socket. Ahanu looked back to the woman. It was impossible to know her age. Her face was swollen, purple and bloody, but she was small. All the white men were.

"Were it not for her son's life at the end of my blade, she would have ended his. But despite earning her life and the life of her child Pajackok took it upon himself to bring the boy's life to end with a swing of the hammer. Pajackok has shamed himself twice this day." Megedagik looked over to Pajackok, a look of chilling contempt. "He has an evil heart."

 _He who has an Evil Heart._ Ahanu looked back to Pajackok. What a name to branded with on his first real test in battle. _Matchitehlew._

"This… fearsome mother… with me respected and is under my personal protection. An attack on her is an attack on me and will be dealt with accordingly."

He said nothing else and directed her toward his fire. She sat down silently against a tree, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. Ahanu gave another look back to Matchitehlew before turning back to his scalps. He glanced up again to look at the girl with the yellow hair. She was nestled in with the rest of the women, her face angled down to the ground. That was the type of woman you brought back from a fight. His blood, still not entirely cooled from battled, heated once more. He looked up again, eyes pinned on her intently. She was looking up, examining Maska-anna carefully. She leaned forward, moving onto her knees. She was leaning on her bound hands, about to get up when Matunaaga to his feet and barked at her. She flinched, moved back into her seat, pretty, blue eyes wide with fear. She lowered her face and looked to her bound wrists. Matunaaga sat back down, shaking his head.

"Do you like her, brother?" Matunaaga asked, biting into a piece of venison. Ahanu looked to Matunaaga and then back to the yellow-haired girl. "Wish you found her?"

"Powhatan will not let you keep her anyway," Ahanu reminded him with a bit too much bitterness in his voice. His brother put an arm around his shoulder.

"If he does, I'll let you have a night with her," Matunaaga taunted. Ahanu looked back to the girl. His brother then murmured close to his ear, "I bet she is untouched."

Ahanu shoved his brother off of him. His skin heated and he looked down to a scalp. He moved it from the fire and went about scraping it clean. He looked back up, pinning his dark gaze on the yellow-haired girl. Once more, his muscles tensed and his blood turned hot.


	3. 3

III

The savages did not bother to bind their feet or secure them to a tree during the night. Apparently, they thought that simply removing the shoes of the four women was enough to keep them from fleeing. The night was cold and the four women spent the night huddled against each other. Luckily, most wore their legwarmers or wool stockings. Sara was able to keep her hands bundled in her apron, tucked in within a crook of the tree and blocking herself from the cool breeze that whipped through the night air. A few of the savages took turns staying up through the night, but even they did not give the women much interest. An occasional glance in their direction was enough to satisfy them.

If the other three women slept, Sarah did not know, but sleep evaded her. Every time her eyes fluttered closed she saw her parents. A sickle through the throat, the blade slicing through the skin. Blood, shock, the look in her parents' shocked and frightened eyes. And then… nothing. The images battered at her brain even when awake. She tried to look at the stars to pray, but her heart was too empty. Her prayers, like her tears, were all dried up. So she spent the night awake, shivering up against the rough bark of the tree. It was just around sunrise when she watched a savage rise and wander off into the forest. It was with tired eyes that she followed him. Once gone from sight she scanned the camp. Savages laid about, nestled in animal furs and wool blankets taken from homes. After a stretch of time with the savage not returning she looked toward the woman on the far side of the camp, wrapped warmly in a thick bare pelt, pressed up close to the still burning fire, pulpy face hidden by the soft black fur providing her warmth.

The savage that had disappeared returned and crouched down before the fire. Sarah leaned back against the tree and pressed her face back to the bark. Her eyes kept closing. They were too heavy. She felt sleep at just the end of her eyelashes, but it would not come. She was stuck in between, too tired to remain to awake, in too much pain to find sleep. Her mother's lifeless eyes. The blood spurting from between his fingers. She saw the blade once more slipping into his soft flesh. Violently. Abruptly. Eyes wide and gray.

She started awake and looked around to find the savages packing up camp and readying to move. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, glancing over at her fellow captives. They were mostly silently. One prayed. One sat perfectly still, eyes closed and face forward. The other cried softly, face in her hands. Sarah looked to the woman on the side of camp. She was sitting up and leaning against a tree, face angled upward and eyes closed. She did not look well, even with a frightening looking savage kneeling before her and offering her a cup of something to drink. The savage gripped the back of her neck and gently pulled her from the tree, and tilting the cup. She drank a moment, sputtered, and then raised a hand to wave him away. Sarah was struck with a wave of familiarity. Her lips parted, her name on the tip of her tongue, but suddenly there was a number of savages standing before them. Their boots were dropped down in front of them in a tangled heap. They were yelled at, presumably to hurry, and they pulled on their shoes.

Sara looked toward the man that had murdered her family. The smile on his face twisted her stomach. She glanced to his side and looked among the group. She found the one that had offered her food, pulling loops attached to a basket over his shoulders. Her fingers trembled as she laced up the shoes in the cool morning air. They were mostly draped in what she would describe has blankets or cloaks, but they all looked quite warm. She glanced up in time to see him run a hand through the front of his hair, slicking the shorter portion of his unshaved head upward. Soon, another savage returned, barking at them loudly. He was greeted by blank, if fearful, expressions. He barked again, reaching down and grabbing two of them by the arms and yanking them to her feet. Sarah looked back to the injured woman. The savages were all almost ready to go. One of the decorated savages had her by the arm, crouching down so he could speak to her. When he released her, she stepped away from him. A blanket was placed over her shoulders. Sarah was not able to get a better look at her. Her stomach nagged. There was a need to know who it was. There was a need for her to be Alice.

But the savages cleaned up camp with remarkable speed. A bundle was put into each woman's arms. Nothing was said to them. They stood in a row as the savages finished readying for travel. When it was time to go, a savage came from behind them, shoving them forward. Sarah stumbled but managed to keep herself from falling. They moved on into the forest, but there was no trail for them to use. It was over hard earth, rocks and roots that they had to travel over. It was not a problem at first. The movement allowed Sarah to warm up and watching her feet take each step across the forest floor gave her something to think about, but very soon her lack of sleep caught up with her. Her legs grew tired. Her back began to ache. Her head throbbed. And all she could think off was the injured woman and how much she looked like Alice. The injured woman was nowhere in sight. The savages all seemed to know where they were going and were rather spread out across the forest floor.

They stopped when the sun was high above their heads. The four of them were given a few sips of water and a bites of meat. The break was far too short. She got back up to her feet, but the moment they began to walk her body protested. Her feet hurt terribly and her muscles ached. She was quite used to walking. She would walk to town every morning and sometimes again at night, but never had she done so after a sleepless night. And the pace these savages took. They were used to such travel. Their bodies were made for it. Lean and muscled. As the day went some began to shed their heavier clothing.

All four of the women began to struggle as the day stretched on. Sarah stumbled her fair share, but she lead the group. She made the decision that she would not fall behind before their captors grew angry with them. Unwilling to slow their pace, a savage was stationed behind them with a whip. Sarah was never struck though she was able to discern that the savage's strikes were not meant to hurt… merely to give incentive. It was enough for Sarah. The woman at the end of the line, the older woman, continued to stumble and as it became more consistent, the savage's strikes became harder.

"Get up. Get up," Sarah heard the younger of the three call. Sarah turned her head and found the woman on the ground, shaking her head and weeping softly. Sarah fell back to help her up with the others. She raised her hand to the savage with the whip and to her surprise he lowered it. He said something, motioning ahead of them. Sarah helped yank the older woman to her feet and shoved her in front of her. She tried to keep her up ahead, bur soon it felt as though they were merely dragging her. She slowed considerably, weeping softly, and as Sarah's desperation grew, so did her contempt. They got her back onto her feet, but she walked so slowly. The Indian's whip came down harder, and the last time she fell, Sarah and the other two girls were unable to lift her.

"Come on, come one," one girl cried.

"Ma'am, get up, ma'am," Sarah pleaded. The savage with the whip even tried to lift her this time. The delay was unacceptable. Another savage came from ahead of them, The two savages spoke to each other. The three women were still trying to lift the older

"No!" a scream ripped through Sarah's throat as she saw the knife in the newcomer's hands. The savage with the whip argued, but soon he was shoving the remaining girls to the side., pushing them onward.

"No, I can walk! I can go on!" the older woman cried.

"Stop!" Sarah screamed, trying to get to her. The other two were moving on, fearful of their own lives, but looked back in terror. "Please don't."

The savage came around the back of the older woman and grabbed her bonnet, yanking back her hair. Sarah's lips parted as the knife was placed to her throat.

She was ripped back by a firm hand to her arm and spun around into a hard mass before she could see the life taken. The mass behind her continued to move, pushing her along the forest floor, his hands to her shoulders, steadying her as he pushed her along. Tears slid down her cheeks as she stepped away from the body. Her hand covered her mouth and she shook her head as she stumbled away. She paused a moment, placing her face in her hands. The mass returned, pushing her along. She trudged along in a daze until they reached the river. There she sank down onto her knees, buried her face in her hands, and cried. She hadn't even thought to ask the poor woman's name.

* * *

Maska-anna walked through the forest at an impressive speed for a woman that had suffered such a vicious attack the day before. She was concussed. The different size of her pupils when they managed to shake her awake was proof enough of that. She was cooperative, but Megedagik did not believe it was due to any submissive tendencies in her character. Her confusion to simple things was more of a reasonable explanation. When she awoke, and Kesegowasse tried to get her to drink the bugbane tea, she seemed quite alarmed at the sight of them, but there were no cries of fright or demands to be released. Only a frown and curious looks in their directions, rapid blinks of her red, swollen eyes, and soft, confused murmurs.

Once, Mukki waited patiently for her as she paused in the middle of the forest, putting her hands to her face and standing perfectly still. Others milled around her, unconcerned with the halted white woman. It was not until Kesegowasse circled back and called to Mukki that he gently nudged the woman forward. She began to walk again immediately. It was not until well past midday that she began to fade. Kesegowase carried her a couple of miles. Mukki carried her one and Megedagik carried her the rest of the way to the river. She was limp in her arms. More than once Megedagik considered she had died. The small rise and fall of her chest proved that belief to be false and every time he looked down to see her eyes fluttering beneath her bruised eyelids he felt a glimmer of relief.

"Kesegowase," Megedagik asked as they began to load the canoes. His brother looked at him without a word. "Will you bring her to Matchut?"

"Not Werowocomoco?"

"It is too far away," he answered. He glanced over his shoulder to look at the woman. She placed herself against a tree, seated on the ground with her knees pressed up to her chest. She leaned forward, battered face pressed to her knees. He examined her hands. Three fingernails were missing. Two of her knuckles were still bleeding slowly. "Pauwau will care for her until she is well enough for travel."

"Do you want me to wait with her?" Kesegowase asked.

"There is no one else I trust," Megedagik responded. Kesegowase looked at the woman and then nodded slowly.

"I will do this for you."

"Thank you, brother," Megedagik responded. Kesegowase was the same age as Megedagik, the son of another one of their father's wives. Kesegowase and Megedagik had been raised by their mothers' brothers, as was custom, but had always been close to the other.

Kesegowase reached into his canoe and threw Mukki's belongings into Megedagik's. The youngest brother stared silently, but put up no protest. He ran a hand through his full head of hair, contemplating the change of plan, but then continued on without a word. A cool breeze came whipping through the air, harsher as they stood on the bank of the river. Megedagik retrieved his bear pelt from his basket as Kesegowase retrieved the woman. He tried to get her to eat but she refused. She only shook her head and touched her stomach. Fearful she might need to vomit while on the water, Kesegowase relented without a fight.

They wrapped her in the bear pelt and lowered her down comfortably on the floor of the canoe. The tea helped to keep her docile and she closed her eyes the moment she was laid down, seemingly pleased she would not be required to walk any longer. Megedagik looked her over and gave a shake of his head.

"I should have let her kill him," Megedagik murmured.

"He is weak. He always was. A fine fighter, but his pride was too badly wounded. To be bested in battle not simply by a woman… but a white woman…" Kesegowase said. "There is no way to know such a thing until you know it."

"The child was young?" Mukki asked.

"Younger than Sawnee."

Mukki looked down and climbed into the front of the canoe.

"Treat her with care," Megedagik told his brother. "She has suffered greatly already."

"I will," he promised and the two clasped each other's wrists.

Megedagik bent down and grabbed the back of the canoe. He ran into the river, jumping up as the water reached his ankles. The canoe glided across the water, running quickly with the melted snow. Spring rivers were always dangerous. Megedagik grabbed his paddle and looked to see Kesegowase pushing the canoe into the water. They travelled together about a half mile before Kesegowase took a left at the fork, heading south west toward the Corn Eaters.

"Safe travels!" Kesegowase called.

"And to you, brother!" Megedagik called back, raising a hand farewell.

"I will try to return before the new moon. Mukki?"

The young man looked back to his brother. Kesegowase slapped his elbow.

"Keep that arm straight."

Mukki waved a hand but said nothing. He was not one for words. Megedagik helped turn the canoe toward the North with a few other canoes. Some were just being pushed into the water along the far bank. Megedagik closed his eyes and leaned back. He started forward a moment, looking back to remind Kesegowase to be careful along the rapids with the white woman. But Kesegowase was already a ways away and he knew better than to put himself in a dangerous situation. He looked back down the river ahead, rowing hard toward the opposite shore. Already his muscles were aching from rowing up river and the river would only get stronger as they went on. If Kesegowase had been in the canoe with him they would have made it further, but too soon they had to cross to the other shore and go back to walking. They piled their belongings into their canoe and both took hold of an end of the canoe. Without being slowed down by the white captive, the two brothers returned to Werowocomoco by the end of the following day.

* * *

Sarah looked to the running water with tired eyes, her face blank, the confusion she felt within not present on her face. The water looked to be running quite fast, and yet it looked as though they would be going into the water. Canoes were pulled from the brush, flipped over and prepared for travel. Sarah shook her head slowly as they prepared. She heard the other two women murmuring to each other. She nudged herself backwards, away from the bank, and hugged her knees to get chest. She rested her chin on the top of her knees as she watched the savages prepare for movement. She found the Indian that had prevented her from seeing the newest murder. He crouched down and touched the water. He said something and then removed his hand from the water. He flicked his fingers at another and laughed. The second savaged kicked some cold water at him, but he only continued to laugh. He ran his wet fingers over the bald half of his scalp.

Another savage then blocked her view, stopping before her and saying something. He motioned toward the boat and she looked at it a moment. The other two began to move toward it but Sarah remained still. The savage barked again. She looked at him and then responded very simply, "No."

The savage blinked at her and then reached down to seize her. She dodged him but he was not trying all that hard to grab her. He seemed more like a father annoyed with a child than a savage angry enough to kill. He turned and spoke to the other savages. Her parents' murderer stood and her blood went cold. She stumbled backward, suddenly fearful for her life, but the other savage, the one that had fed her the night before, stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. They conversed a moment before he came toward her. He knelt down in front of her and smiled. He held out the canteen for her. Her thirst dictated that she accepted the offer, no matter how little she wanted any kindness from them. She took a sip and he only looked at her, that smile on his face.

"I cannot swim," she said between sips. His eyebrows lifted as she spoke. She removed the end of the canteen from her lips. "I can't. Swim."

She pointed to the water with her bound hands. She put the canteen back between her lips. The savage examined in the water and then looked back. He itched the top of his scalp. He said something as he took his canteen from her and then stood. He reached down for her and, out of fear that he might leave her at the mercy of the killer savage, she went with him. She shook her head as he brought her toward the boat, a large hand wrapped around her upper arm.

"Please, s-sir, I cannot swim," she said again, pulling up short as they got to the shore. He released her and looked to the boat. He pointed across the shore and said something. Another savage spoke, the rest laughed, but he seemed un-phased. She paused too long and the murderer moved away from his boat, coming toward her angrily. She raised up her wrists to the kind savage. "Just untie me,. So I might have a chance."

She looked to the current. The kind savage looked to the murderer. He gave a scoff but it must have been assent, for the kind savage was soon cutting through her binds. She smiled in relief, rubbing the raw skin, but still she hesitated. He spoke again and she looked up. He motioned to the boat. She complied but it was slowly. Another savage stepped into the water to get into the front of the canoe. She was relieved when the kind savage grabbed either side of the canoe behind her and pushed it further into the water. She did not want to be in the same boat as the man that killed her parents. The savages rowed with force and persistence, and managed to fight the current.

She had a white knuckled grip on the edge of the boat, eyes screwed shut as they moved across the water. The current was not unmanageable, but certainly not something they could keep up for long. She murmured to herself softly, praying that they might not tip or drown. The water was not nearly bad enough for such a thing to happen but it did not stop her imagination from getting the best of her. The one in the front of the boat turned back a few times to look at her. At one point, thinking himself hysterical, he ceased rowing and began to rock the boat. Water sloshed up on either side of them and though a cry ripped from her throat and tears wet her cheeks, it was the harsh bark from the man behind her that stopped his dangerous game.

She was startled by a large hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at the kind savage. He pointed over her shoulder, other hand still on her shoulder. She hoped that his foreign words were telling her they would be reaching land again soon. When they finally moved toward shore, Sarah jumped out before the boat was out of the water, soaking her shoes and the bottom of her skirt. She walked up onto the shore, counting the savages with in sight. The murderer, her friend, and five others. When she looked around, she was rather frightened to discover the other women were not present. It was not so much fear that they were dead. There had been a sort of comfort being with the other women. It was a type of shield. Suddenly, she felt frighteningly more vulnerable.

_You'll end up a whore for a savage._

_Better one than five._

She looked toward her friend. He was pushing up the canoe and dragging it onto the bank. She stared at him, blues eyes moving over his tall form. He let the fur drop from his shoulders and pointed ahead. The group seemed to be discussing whether they should continue on or not. Sarah took her eyes away from the savage and settled down on the floor. When they made up their mind and they all got up to walk once more, he came toward her and offered her another few sips of water. He helped her to her feet and gently nudged her further into the woods.

_Better one than five._

No. She would not even let herself consider it.

* * *

Ahanu looked up from the fire to examine the white woman. It seemed unfair that his brother would find such a prize when he did not appreciate the beauty she possessed. It baffled him some that others were not as mesmerized by her strange looks as he was. Eyes like the sky. Hair like corn. A small petite nose on a young face, lips full and pink, cheeks a pretty pink. Her form was small and slender, though most of these white men had been after the long winter. She clearly did not eat as much as she should. A stronger man would have been able to provide for her. He shot a glance toward his brother, seated with those from his own tribe, and then back to the line of women. They had all regrouped just before sunset to make camp. They were less than a half day's journey to Werowocomoco. Ahanu was anxious to see Powhatan once more. It had been some time since he had seen the man himself.

"This one man just began to beg," Melkedoodum said with utter contempt. "Got right down on his knees, wife and children behind him and just _begged._ "

"He thought it would save his family," Akando murmured, sticking his fingers into the roasted squirrel meat before him. "You cannot blame him for that."

"It was only he and I," Melkedoodum protested. "He should have stood and fought."

"Did you kill the children?" Akando asked. That made Melkedoodum pause. He looked to Akando, eyes hot with anger.

"Are your hands bloodless?" he asked. The two stared at each other.

"I want to hear tell of the Maskaanna's battle," Chogan said, breaking the tension. "Do you think Megedagik will tell it when we've all returned?"

"He will," Akando said. "If nothing more than to add to Matchitehlew's shame."

"Matchitehlew," Chogan snickered. "What a name to be awarded.

"At least he's been awarded one," Akando added with amused smugness.

"I'd rather remain nameless than have such a brand," Chogan responded.

"Will you all stop," Ahanu snapped. He rubbed his forehead. "My head is beginning to ache."

"Bring your little prisoner over to soothe it for you," Melkedoodum teased.

"She is not my prisoner," Ahanu answered.

"Matunaaga won't touch her," Chogan said, tossing a bit of tough meat into the fire. He chuckled, "Huata won't allow it."

"She can share my bed," Melkedoodum grinned. "I want to know what sounds a white woman makes."

"The same sounds every woman makes," Akando replied.

"The men these white women are subjected to… I think she just needs the right hands on her," Melkedoodum laughed. "Wisaweksquaw!"

The white women looked up at the sound of his yell. Ahanu looked to the yellow haired girl. She was looking up with wide eyes. Eyes the color of the sky.

"Wisaweksquaw!" he called again. _Yellow girl._ He looked to her and beckoned her closer. "Come here. I'll show you how a real man handles a woman."

She leaned forward, looking between them in frightened confusion.

"Leave her be," Ahanu said. He looked back to her and she was looking at him expectantly.

"Well, of course, you'd get to have her first," Melkedoodum offered kindly. "Warm her up for the rest of us."

Melkedoodum laughed and nudged Akando playfully. Akando looked up with a smile, amused more by Ahanu's anger than Melkedoodum's tasteless taunting. Suddenly she spoke, voice loud enough for them to hear, but soft and unsure. She looked frightened.

"Go on, now," Chogan laughed. "She's asking for you."

Ahanu looked back at her. True enough she was still looking at him. She glanced to his brother anxiously, then back to him. Ahanu held out a hand and Chogan handed him the bowl. He rose, looking back to his brother himself. He was speaking with his friends, unaware of what was happening with his temporary prisoner. He moved over to her and crouched down before her. He smiled at her as he looked into her eyes.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. He touched his lips. "Hungry?"

He held out the bowl. She looked at it a moment and then looked to the other white woman. She spoke to him, his smile widening ever so slightly at the sound of her voice. He held up the bowl again. She took it and lowered it to her lap. He watched her slender fingers rip off some of the tender meat, placing it between her lips. She said something to him and he reached up to gently push the hair covering back. He touched her yellow hair, pinching the silky locks. They were soft and smooth.

"Give her a kiss," Melkedoodum teased. Akando told him to be silent. Melkedoodum only laughed.

Ahanu released her hair, tucked it back beneath her covering, and then pulled it back forward. Her eyes remained on his. Uncertain and curious, but he rose and returned to his friends. When he lowered himself down he found her offering the bowl to her fellow captives. He looked back down to the fire, anxious to return home and hear Powhatan's ruling on their female captives. He looked back up to her often, unable to keep his gaze from the young white woman. To his surprise, every time he did glance up to look at her, those pretty eyes, blue like the sky, were looking straight at him.

* * *

That night, once more, they were not bound, but again, the savages took turns keeping watch. The little fires crackled, but many let the flames die, choosing instead to find warmth within their pelts and blankets. That night was colder than the last and this time Sarah found only pockets of sleep. She would awake to sound of screams and the smell of blood, the vision of her parent's lying dead on the ground fresh in her brain. Her blue eyes would pop open, she would jerk against the ground as her body jolted with a rush of sickening adrenaline, but it was darkness and silence that greeted her. She would stare into the darkness, focusing on the sound of the crackle of the fire to try and stay awake, but soon her tired eyes would flutter closed and once more she was reunited with her parents, bloody and pale, crying out in pain as they were slaughtered. In some of her waking moments, she fantasized about the killing of their murderer. She would kill them as he had killed them. She saw him being scalped, beaten, killed.

"Let Alice live," Sarah whispered into the darkness, pressing her face into the soft earth of the forest beneath her and fighting off another violent shiver from the cold. The ache in her head swelled and she felt a wave of nausea. Her stomach growled and the painful pangs of hunger aided her violent dreams in keeping her heavy eyelids from closing. She was startled away for good when the sun had risen and she was being nudged with a foot. Her eyes fluttered open, utter confusion filling her empty head to the brim. She was reoriented to her situation with a plummeting crush of renewed detestation and sat up to put on the shoes the savage had just dropped down in from of her.

She pulled them on slowly, looking around to watch the savages collect their belongings. She could not find the one that offered her food the day before. Her stomach growled, giving voice to her disappointment in not finding him. She would do almost anything for a small morsel of food. She could almost smell her mother's warm bread. A small loaf, but all the family needed throughout the harsh winter, nestled together before the fire, nibbling on fresh bread and drinking ale, telling and listening to stories, readings from the bible, visions for the bright future this new world would offer them. She fought off the urge to cry again and laced up her shoes tightly, but though her efforts were gallant, a tear had trailed down her cheek as the last bow was tied.

The savage with the whip returned and he gave what Sarah could only assume was an order to rise. She once again looked for the savage that had aided her the day before but she could not find him. Those whose fire he shared were nearby, readying themselves for travel, but she did not think them capable of the same kindness the other had showed her. He was an anomaly whose loss she severely missed in those painful and tired moments before travel. The savage with the whip pushed them along and Sarah closed her eyes, trusting her feet to carry her straight. That she might hit a tree was not something she concerned herself with in those moments. She said a prayer, pleading with God to see her through this, to bring her back home again, so she might put flowers on the graves of her parents.

She tripped and her eyes popped open. The others were behind her, all still numb from the senseless murder of the nameless woman the day before. She walked as fast as she could, but the pace these savages hoped to keep far exceeded her capabilities. If they had thought to feed her, provide her with water, give her a blanket so meaningful sleep might have been possible the night before, she might have been able to accomplish what they were demanding from her and her fellow captives. But these beasts had either not thought of such a thing due to their lower cognitive abilities or their cruelty simply made them indifferent.

But even with burning legs, a throbbing head, and exhaustion unlike anything she had ever felt before in her seventeen years on God's earth, she pressed on. God had spared her for a reason. She could honor that gift, even if she did not understand it. She thought to Reverend Bishop's sermons. She knew nothing of God's mind, nor could she ever. It would be through faith and trust in him alone that would see her through this ordeal, and should she suffer as Job was made to suffer, it was something she would do obediently and with a heart full of love for her punishing and vengeful God.

Her prayers helped her through to their first break. The sun was high in the sky, shining down glorious warmth from the spidery canopy of leafless trees above. She sat down beside the others, leaning back against a tree. Her hands kneaded her burning legs and she waited anxiously for a savage, any savage, to bring them food. No food would come. Not even a drop of water, and after what they had witnessed the day before, none of the young woman dare raise a voice. They were ordered up by the savage with the whip and were once more on the move. Each step Sarah took she believed to be her last, but she continued on, moving one foot at a time, forcing herself to make one more step. Just one more. Just one more. Just one more.

It was well past midday when she felt a sudden yank from the top of her head. The strap beneath her chin raked against the cool flesh of her face and soon a savage was jogged ahead with her bonnet in his hand. She pressed her lips together tightly, glancing back at the other women. Their bonnets remained securely on their heads. She remembered when the color of her hair was something she had taken great pride in. That time had since passed and a complete reversal had taken place in the span of a two short, but so very painfully long days. Another savage stepped up beside her, reaching up to touch her hair but she stepped away. She tried to remain calm, but her anxiety coursed through her in terrifying torrents. A short glance back behind her expressed clearly enough that her fellow captives would not be risking their own well-fare to come to her aid. She would have been lying to herself if she said she did not blame them.

"Please, return it to me at once," she said, softly at first, hoping that a timid, frightened young girl might soften their hearts. She was quite wrong in that regard. The savages, young in appearance, probably not much older than Sarah herself, smiled at her, not entirely aggressive, not even lecherous if she were of right mind and able to make note of such a thin, but far from friendly and compassionate. The one with her bonnet came forward, stretching out a brown arm towards her. She reached for the bonnet, thankful for his sympathetic gesture, but her ripped it away. Her fingers slid over the fabric and she jerked forward, hoping she might be able to snatch it from his grasp. He laughed as she stumbled forward. The other reached out, hands closing around her waist, and even though he prevented her from a violent fall to the hard earth below, the moment she regained her footing, she turned, slamming a palm to the side of his face. He stumbled back, his companion laughing. The struck savage's amusement was limited, and he called to his friend. The bonnet was curled up into a fist and tossed to him. He held it out to her, saying something as he dangled it in front of her face.

Sarah glanced behind. The savage with the whip paid no mind. They continued to move at an acceptable pace. It was all that would arouse his concern. She turned back to look staring at the bonnet as the savage dangled the dirtied white fabric before her nose. She pressed her molars together. The other savages laughed as he walked backward, checking over his shoulder to be sure he did not collide with a tree. She might stop, and she might have her throat cut open with a savage blade. She jerked out her hand instead, hoping to seize her bonnet from him but he was faster. It was something these savages had an immense amount of: speed and agility.

She blinked rapidly as the bonnet was put back before her face. She moved her tongue to the right side of her mouth, capturing beneath the harsh pinch of her grinding teeth. She tried to seize it once more. She was met with more laughter and left with an empty hand. She looked back to the man with the whip. He was accompanied by a frightful savage with a scar and a white eye. She dared not ask them for help. She moved toward the savage with a demand that the bonnet be returned but he jumped away. He tossed it to his friend and she moved for it. He dangled it before her until she got closer to him. He tossed it back to his friend. She let their game continue for far too long. It was anger and an unclear head that kept her from accepting the loss of her bonnet. At no time did she consider the fact that if she ceased to amuse them they would return it and leave her be.

She stepped toward him and tried to reach one last time before a body stepped between them. The newcomer seized the front of the young savages buck skin shirt, yanking him forward and then shoving him backward violently. The taunting savage's eyes widened as he looked up from the forest floor and Sarah came to a stop to look up at the newcomer. She was relieved when he turned and held a hand up toward the savage with the whip, speaking something in their tongue. The savage with the whip moved on with a nod, pushing the other captives along. She looked back to the newcomer. His half-shaved head and flowing black locks brought about another wave of relief as he barked at the younger men. He grabbed the bonnet from his hand and barked something. The two young men jogged off, glancing back over their shoulders as they disappeared.

He turned back to her, a sigh leaving him, eyes severe. She stood still as he stepped closer and let him tuck some loose strands of hair behind her ear. He put the bonnet back on her head, albeit, after a few long moments of examining her golden locks once more. He tied the string beneath her chin gently. He said something she did not understand and then turned around and began to walk ahead. She had to jog to keep up. He himself was even almost running. She glanced toward her fellow captives, but calculated a better chance of survival and safety under the care of the savage in front of her.

She followed him closely for a long while, unsure how much time she actually spent behind him. He glanced behind himself a few times, first noting that she was still there, and then a few times to be sure she was still there. His pace slowed considerably as they went on, and it was a little after dark that they reached the little camp that had been set up, a smattering of fires burning within the sparse woods. It was exhaustion that had her colliding with the savage when he came to a stop before his friend's camp. She continued to walk at his speed, slamming into him as his body came to a halt. Her body slammed into his, tall and powerful. It sent her smaller form colliding hard with the ground, a cry of pain escaping her. What the other savages might have done at the sound she did not care, and therefore did not take the time to note. She was only aware that almost the moment the cry left her lips, he was kneeling before her, a kind of surprised and embarrassed laugh leaving his lips as he carefully helped her up to her feet. One of his friends spoke, but her protector responded and suddenly there was silence among the savages in her immediate vicinity.

She was picked up gently by her forearms, and the savage smiled and motioned to his left. She looked over and saw her fellow captives on the far side of the rather spread out camp. Once her eyes found them, the savage sat down with his friends, slipping off the heavy bundle from his shoulders and rummaging through it. Her eyes lingered on the women, torn, before moving forward and forcibly nudging a savage to the side. She nestled down beside the savage that had taken a liking to her. It was not something she was pleased about. It was not something she could even reconcile with her conscious, but it satisfied a need within her. The raw need of survival. Safety and security. A human need that transcended time, gender, race, religion; Whatever concept man might create to divide themselves from another. No person could deny its call. She glanced at the savage to her immediate right, trying to gather some sort of understanding of his person from a single look. He seemed amused, but not aggressive, and he made no move to taunt her. Instead, he looked back to the fire and poked at it with a stick, speaking with clear amusement to her protector. Another savage spoke; he laughed crudely. That seemed to transcend race as well. He nudged the savage beside him. He seemed reluctantly amused.

The savage to her immediate right was tall, like all of these savages seemed to be. He was lean, again, something she observed of the race. But on the top of his head was a full mess of black hair, pulled back, adorned with a number of feathers, but otherwise quite simple. He had a large nose and low cheekbones, a nick above his upper lip, the skin colored a jagged white. He had markings on his skin, though the extent of them was hidden by his buckskin shirt, decorated with stones, shells, and fur. He seemed young in age, though significantly older than Sarah at the same time. Perhaps in his twenties, perhaps late twenties. His voice was deep, though not significantly so. Neither high nor low, neither weak nor forceful. Overall, he seemed rather noncommittal.

She glanced back to her protector. He was extending a hand toward the one with the crude laugh, a smile on his own face. The one with the crude laughed had a young face, but Sarah could make no judgement as to his actual age. His hair was shaved close on the sides of his head, though visible, the hair atop of his head slightly longer, though still short, tied at the back of the top of his skull. His nose had been broken. The bridge was crooked. He had no scars, no visible markings, but one of his eyes was almost lazy. It was apparent only when he looked to his immediate left, and only slight, but Sarah could see it none the less.

The reluctantly amused savage had a haircut nearly identical to her protector, minus the straightened, shorter portion at the center of his forehead. He had a pelt draped over his shoulder and as she examined him, a tremor coursed through her. Her protector glanced over at her and then rummaged through his belongings, pulling out a dark pelt of his own and draping it over her shoulders. He then picked the bowl he had been handed back up and put it into her hands. The moment she looked down to it her finger plummeted into the succulent meat. She knew only that it was food and immediately began shoving it between her lips. Manners seemed to deteriorate and once more, she thought only of her most basic human needs. She dug into the meat, bringing it to her lips and bunches in hopes of satisfying the ache in her head and the pangs in her stomach.

The one with the crude laugh made a comment. One, Sarah knew, was an insult. Even her protector chuckled, but she did not stop until the bowl was empty. She looked toward her protector, found his canteen that she had offered previously, and reached for it. She ripped the item they used for cork out and raised it to her lips, drinking greedily. She was watched by all around the fire, but again she did not care. She'd not received water since he provided it for her last. She placed the canteen back beside him empty, but he did not seem worried. He put it beside his basket and spoke to her. She did not know what he said and he reached into his basket. He retrieved a pelt, one she could not see because of the darkness, and laid it down to the side. He spoke to her again, gently nudging her to the side. She rose, allowing him to spread it out in the area she had been sitting. Once spread out, he patted the fur and she immediately moved onto it. As soon as she laid down, he curled the pelt around her, securing her in beautiful warmth. Warmth she had felt just two days before, but one that seemed so far away. She closed her eyes, listening to their soft speech and the crackling of fire, and though the nightmares returned, she awoke only once throughout the lonely, cold darkness of the night.

* * *

Ahanu knew that Matunaaga would come eventually, but as he saw his brother stalking toward them, he had to re-brace himself. His anger was clear, his annoyance fierce, but when he came to stop before the fire his voice was calm and controlled. Ahanu stared silently, offering nothing in greeting, ready to defend his current custody over the yellow-haired girl sleeping restlessly beside him. Matunaaga looked to her, found her wrapped securely in Ahanu's pelt, and gave a bitter smile. His arms crossed over his powerful chest, and his gaze took on more than a flash of arrogance.

"You know she doesn't belong to you," he told Ahanu. "No matter how much you might want her."

"Nor does she belong to you," Ahanu responded. Matunaaga's smile faltered. "She belongs to Powhatan. Until he decides what is to be done with her and all the others."

"Make a pet of her if you wish," Matunaaga said. The calmness of his voice made it all the more threatening. "But you would be wise to respect my claim."

Matunaaga turned and walked away.

"Asshole," Melkedoodum grunted once he was out of earshot. He rubbed his hands together before retrieving a blanket from his basket.

"He has no interest in her," Akando murmured. "He's like a child with a toy. He doesn't want it until another shows an interest."

"It doesn't matter now anyway," Ahanu said. "Until Powhatan rules they belong to the Confederacy."

"He brings me to the edge of fury," Akando responded, sounding and looking nothing at all like a man brought to the edge of fury. Slight annoyance, maybe. "He leaves her all day to be driven by Mingan, knowing the day before Nootau killed a captive for slowing them down. Then he arrives here, angered that you've dared seen her fed and watered."

"He'd rather her dead then let you have her," Chogan concurred, poking at the fire with his stick. Ahanu simply stared into the flames.

"As I said," he finally responded. "It doesn't matter until Powhatan makes his decision."

The topic was dropped but Ahanu's eyes drifted toward other side of their camp where he knew his brother to be.

"Who thinks Maskaanna will survive the journey?" Melkedoodum asked.

"No way," Chogan said shaking his head.

"She is going to stay with the Corn Eaters," Akando said. "She'll make it there. Kesegowase brought her himself."

"How do you know that?" Chogan asked, clearly not believing the tale being told.

"Samoset," Akando answered.

"And how does Samoset know?" Chogan asked sarcastically.

"It is what is being said," Akando replied.

"Then it must be true," Chogan responded. Ahanu did not listen to their arguments, nor did he take part in the rather tasteless bets as to whether the woman would be alive or dead when they returned to the capital. Instead, he simply waited for Mingan to come and pass on the next watch. It was an hour or so later that he came to the fire. Chogan and Melkedoodum had gone to sleep. Akando remained awake, staring into the flames. Though Akando would not admit it, Ahanu could see the events of the attack running though his mind, replaying every single death that was brought about from his hand. Sleep would not come easily to him for months to come.

Mingan did not need to say a word as he passed by the fire. He gave a single nod, to which Ahanu responded with a single nod. He rose from the fire and walked into the woods. He said nothing to Akando. He did not need to. He knew he would watch over the sleeping yellow-haired girl. Ahanu spent majority of the night circling around the camp. Looking for intruders, listening for animals. He found those times peaceful. Though many might prefer to sleep, it afforded him extra time to let his brain process the events of the day. Though he would not voice it to his friends, and he did his best to remind himself how unlikely it was that he would have any type of control over the yellow-haired girl once they returned to the village, his brother's actions bothered him terribly. Married to a jealous woman, there was no way that Matunaaga would try and bring the young woman into his household. Ahanu even doubted that the girl's beauty was what spared her life. It was, in all likelihood, simply a fanciful whim that saw her brought back alive. Her eyes, the color of the sky, and hair, yellow like corn, was enough to make her a novelty, but nothing more to his brother. That he life was left vested in the hands of one with the potential for cruelty such as his brother, seemed patently unfair.

He returned to the camp, passing on the next watch, and settled down by the fire, pushing in some logs so that the fire would burn more brightly. Akando was now asleep, nestled up against Melkedoodum for warmth, face pressed down toward the ground. The yellow-haired girl, Wisaweksquaw her friends had dubbed her, was mumbling something, but as he bent his head closer to examine her, it was clear she was still in the realm of sleep, and it was nightmares that plagued her now. He felt a wave of regret, a twinge of sympathy, and he was freshly angered that any captives were taken at all. The women, most young enough to have lost parents, but old enough to have lost children, were a constant and cruel reminder of what had been done. The necessity of the act in no way tempered the difficulty in it.

"Wisaweksquaw," he said softly, touching the top of her head. Her hair was soft beneath the white fabric of her covering, now darkened and dirty with long days of travel and the taunting from the Achak boys earlier in the day. "Wawetseka," he added, applying more force to her bonnet. She started awake violently, trying to bolt up from her position on the floor. Her blue eyes were wide and alert, adrenaline coursing through her fragile body, and he felt her muscles tense and flex as he grabbed her arms and kept her on the ground. She looked up to him in terror and he shook his head, quite sure he knew what she now had fear of. She remained on the ground, looking up with frightened eyes and he patted her covering. "Sleep now, Wawetseka. Sleep in peace."

She said nothing and he moved away from her carefully. He was unsure if she might try and run still, but as he lowered himself to the ground in a desire to find rest, she remained where she was. He fought off sleep for some time, making sure that the girl did not plan to do something foolish now that she was awake, but soon enough, her mumbles and murmurs renewed again. Then it was not so hard to fight off sleep because sleep ran from him. His brain would no longer remain silent and he spent the rest of the night and well into the early morning hours listening to her restless sleep, trying to imagine what it was her words meant, and what images they might be portraying.

* * *

Sarah awoke before most of the savages did. The sun was rising and the air held a blue tinge to it in these early morning hours. She sat up, her entire body ravaged with the aches of sleeping on the hard ground for yet another night. She arched her back, rolled her shoulders, and crooked her neck, hoping she might find some relief for her sore muscles, but no relief would be found. She glanced over at her protector. He was sleeping beside her, lying on his side, arm acting as a pillow. She draped the animal pelt over her shoulders and scooted closer to the fire. It was still burning, though not as brightly, and gave off enough warmth to keep her comfortable. She was startled when she looked up and found one of the savages from the night before seated at the fire. He was not looking at her and seemed quite content looking into the fire.

Once she was settled before the flames he glanced up at her. He seemed unsurprised by her presence and retrieved a small bowl. He presented it to her and she began to eat without hesitation. He held out a canteen next and she accepted the horn, taking a few sips before placing it back down. He was the reluctantly amused savage from the night before, head half shaved, and he stared into the flames with a far away look in his eyes. His eyes suddenly lifted from the flames, but only after a significant amount of time passed. She looked away immediately and bit her bottom lip. She glanced around, finding a few more savages awake, eating their breakfast and lazily getting ready for the day.

"Excuse me?" she asked. He looked back to her blankly. "I must…" she braced herself for the humiliation. "I must relieve myself."

She was met with a blink and a blank stare.

"I must…" she motioned into the woods. He shook his head. "No I must…"

She retrieved the canteen and pulled the cork from the horn. She poured the water onto the ground beside her. He nodded in understanding and pointed into the woods. He said something, presumably warning her not to go far, and she rose. She was unbound. Her shoes remained on her feet, but as she collected her skirts and walked into the trees she had no plans of running. She had no idea where she was and even if she were to escape the savages, she would be likely to starve in the untamed wilderness. When she returned to camp, her protector was awake, but still lying down, speaking to the man by the fire softly as to not wake the others. She sat back by the fire and took his pelt, wrapping herself in it again and taking a few more sips of water. Hunger still gnawed at her but she asked for no more.

Her protector got up with a grunt and moved to sit at the fire. He was handed a cup of something steaming and he took sips from it sparingly. The two conversed until their friends awoke and once all had eaten, the camp began to pack up for another long, grueling day of travel. She did not think she would make it another day. Every movement hurt her body. Pain stretched up her legs and lower back.

She got to her feet, legs straining and surrendered the pelt to her protector. The morning was still cold and she pulled her cloak around herself as a soft breeze came through the air. Just a few minutes into their travel, her protector disappeared for the majority of the morning. She remained with his friends, all of whom paid her little attention, though she had a feeling that the few times the savage with the crude laugh and lazy eye did speak to her he was saying something she would not like if she knew the meaning. She was provided with water when she voiced a need for it and during their short breaks, nuts, dried berries and some salted fish was given to her liberally.

When her protector returned it was just past midday, around the same time he had saved her from her tormentors the day before, and seemed in high spirits. His basket was gone and he had a light animal skin blanket in his hands. He draped it over her shoulders, providing her some additional warmth on the rather cool day. Within an hour they were approaching a large wooden gate jutting out of the forest floor. She could hear voices, children playing. If she closed her eyes, it did not sound so very different from Jamestown. Her stomach twisted with apprehension She sucked in a breath. She took a step toward her protector. He was smiling when he looked down at her and she returned his gaze, hoping that his protection would extend within those wooden walls.

His eyes moved upward though, and he straightened, the smile leaving his lips. She peered over her shoulder to see the murderer or her parents coming toward them. She turned fully and stepped back, trying to block herself from his path with the body of her protector. But her protector's hands closed around her arms and held her in place in front of him, at the mercy of the oncoming savage. The two conversed and Sarah glared at him, hatred brimming within those blue depths. He looked down at her and smiled. He raised a hand, presenting to her a number of scalps on strings. It was with untold horror that she found the blond-haired scalp amongst the mess and she knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that it was her mother's scalp that dangled from that string.

She tried to jerk away, but her savage protector held her still, cruelly forcing her subjection to this vile man before her. Her eyes closed as the scalp came toward her and a strangled sob left her as she felt something draped over her neck. When her eyes opened again, tears slowly dropped from her eyelids and trailed down her cheeks, falling from her chin, and moving down to her parents' scalps draped around her neck. The two savages continued to speak. Then her arm was seized by the murderer, a painful grip on her arm, and she was yanked free from the savage that had showed her kindness. As she was pulled away and lead toward the hall with wet cheeks, she glanced back at him. He remained where he was, glaring at the back of her captor with a visible rage.

He raised his hand, holding the remaining scalps up high, a terrible, sickening shriek of victory came from his throat. She closed her eyes when other's joined in, stumbling along beside him, wondering what sort of hell awaited her within their village gates.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go back and take a look at the first three chapters if you read them before 11/26/2016. I've made some changes. Most important one being there was no interaction between Ahanu and Sarah prior to the attack. 
> 
> HUGE thank you to those that have been commenting. As always, let me know!
> 
> SIDE NOTE: I am trying to use primarily Eastern Algonquin names, as the language the Powhatan Confederacy tribes spoke is now extinct (tragically). However, they did belong to the Algonquin language family. Some names will not be, but for accuracy's sake, I am doing my best to keep it as close to one language base as possible. 
> 
> (If enough interest is shown I will publish a name list on here for those of you that are struggling keeping the Native names straight.)

IV

The inside of the walls were lined with little homes, smoke from fires coming out of an uncovered opening the top of the huts. There was no real organization or planning to the lay out, but it seemed far from cluttered or chaotic. Women, children, the old and infirm sat before their homes, skinning and tanning, painting pottery and crafting jewelry. Some carried baskets of linens or freshly caught fish. Babies were strapped to the backs of women wrapped in furs and hides, young boys carried strange looked paddles in their hands, upper bodies bare, warmed by their energetic youth. It was larger than Martin's Hundred, there appeared to be far more than two hundred present. She did not know savages lived in just great numbers.

Shrieks came from the savage fighters as they entered the gates. Women and children came rushing from their places, smiles on their faces, arms outstretched. Women ran into their sweethearts' arms, mothers greeting their sons, children came rushing to their fathers. Sarah lowered her face, hoping she might go unnoticed, but too soon she found children's curious eyes turning toward her. Young boys came darting from their father's to look at her more closely, hollering out questions to her captor. When she swallowed, she felt dagger's in her throat. A child reached out to seize her apron, tugging curiously at the strange cloth. She reached out, seizing her skirt and tugging it to the side, trying to wrench it from his little hand. The boy looked up in surprise, ready to release her. Matunaaga reached out in a swift motion and slapped the boy hard on the ear, sending him stumbling backwards with a howl of pain.

Sarah reached out to help break his fall on impulse, saving the child with the throbbing ear from a hard fall onto the ground. She steadied him before she herself was yanked back by her parents' killer. The little boy rubbed his ear, big, brown eyes welling up with tears. He was soon swarmed with more children and he faded back into the crowed. She tried to keep her gaze on him, but soon she was jostled and she looked back down at the children. Adults looked on from a distance, curious, but not so bewildered by the sight of pale skin and blue eyes that they lost their senses as the children did.

She was dragged to the center of the village, where a large home, the length of at least two or three of the other homes. It was a tall structure, the center of village life, and before it was a large fire, burning lowly and sending a funny smelling smoke into the cool, crisp air. She looked up at the looming structure as they moved towards it, her stomach twisting nervously. They stopped before the main opening and her captor extended an arm wrapped in grey animal fur to open the heavy buckskin, lined with a number of skins and furs to keep the warmth inside. He nudged her inside with a firm push.

Heads turned as she stumbled inside. The outer edge of the circular structure was lined with wooden benches, covered in animal furs, but those present sat cross legged on the hard floor, partially covered with more pelts and skins. In the center of the large oval were three large burning fired, pots hanging above the flames. One had a woman stirring whatever rested within. A delicious aroma of meat filled the structure, causing a vicious growl erupting from her empty stomach.

Both women and men sat along the floor, in no particular order, no segregation present. Closer to the far end of the home were highly decorated men. Covered in pain, ears pierced, noses pierced, heads shaved and hair roached, they sat with backs straight and chins lifted. She recognized one of them from her initial days of captivity, the man that had the injured woman. She looked around the room, but no other white women were present.

Finally, on the far end of the longhouse, she spotted the Indian King, seated on a bench, two women on either side of him, a crown of feathers on his head. She was brought forward, the bruising grip back on her arm and she fought off the wince. She looked upward and found a loft above, a number of young men seated with legs over the side, gazing down at her, gazes bright, peering out of black paint smudges circling their eyes. She looked back to the Indian King, mouth dry and hands sweaty.

He was a tall and lean man. He had a silver and black pelt draped over his shoulder, but his upper body was bare. Around his middle was a wrap of animal skin, the edges frayed by his knee and around his middle, just below his naval. He appeared to be a younger man; he was younger than she expected. His nose was large and hooked, his eyes rather small, but piercing. He had low, prominent cheekbones and full lips the color of honey. Earing wrapped around from earlobe to inner helix. His septum was pierced but he wore no makeup on his face. His body had markings on it, fine and dark. His gaze was not aggressive, but neither was it particularly friendly. A young woman leaned in close to him, whispering in his ear and touching his arm affectionately. He nodded slowly and she moved away.

Sarah was stopped ten feet before him and her captor began to speak. She felt the others' gazes on her, but she looked straight ahead to the Indian King, hate in her gaze. Above all, it was his fault that her parents were dead. It was this savage's fault they were all dead. Her captor's hand came out and touched her bonnet, drawing a flinch from her. It was removed from her head, revealing her greasy blond locks, tangled and tied at the back of her head. A few savages murmured and the Savage King's lips twitched.

He rose slowly and stepped a few feet closer. He loomed above her, hunching down to look into her eyes. He said something, a smile on his lips, and turned to look back at one of the women that had been seated with him. The smile on his lips when he turned back to her sent a violent wave of hatred like she had never felt before. Not even her captor, the man that had wielded the weapons that stole her parents' from her, aroused such a vicious loathing.

A god of spit passed her lips, her entire back hunching forward with a quick jerk to make sure the insult met its mark. His small, dark eyes shut quickly, spittle landing just beneath his right eye. A Savage behind her reared back, lifting his foot from the floor, and slammed it into the back of her knee. A cry left her and she plummeted to the ground. A cry of pain left her. A burning pain shot down her side calf and she raised a hand to protect herself from the club the savage had raised above his head.

The Indian King's voice froze his hand and no blow came. The Indian King's voice was rather unassuming. It was neither low nor high, neither smooth nor scratchy, and thought it was on the softer side, there was a force behind it. She turned her fearful gaze toward him. He had a hand raised, eyes burning frightfully, but his anger was directed not at her, but to the savage that had struck her. He looked back to her, slowly lowering his hand. He had wiped the spit from his face. His hand came forward and he picked up the string that held her parents scalped. She readied herself to be taunted with the scalps of her parents, eyes fluttering closed and a tear falling down her cheek. He spoke to Matunaaga slowly and then tossed them to her parents' murderer.

"Numes."

A woman rose from the right side of the lodge and the Indian King looked back to Matunaaga. They spoke a moment. Matunaaga stepped forward and spoke in a hushed voice. He looked over his shoulder once, eyes on the door nervously. He reached back to touch her shoulder. She shrugged a shoulder, side stepping toward the decorated warriors to her left, and escaped his touch. The woman approached, a kind looking woman with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Sarah stared blankly as the woman put her hands on Sarah's cheeks, patting gently and speaking softly.

The Indian King spoke again, to her this time, and soon Sarah was being lead away by the hand of the woman. When she was taken back out into the cool, fresh air, the children swarmed once more. She did not react this time when the children reached out to touch her dress, fearful another child might be struck as a result. She tried to find the little boy, but he was not amongst the swarm now present. She looked up again, scanning the Indians for a familiar face. She found him leaning against a post, strung up to another to hang meats. He was with his friends, a knife in his hands, speaking with a smile and jabbing the knife into the air before him. He lowered the knife and stopped talking. It was his friend who now had the attention of the group.

Her protector's gaze moved over to the swarm of children, dancing around her and asking a multitude of questions in their strange tongue. And as the old woman tried to keep them at bay, gently knocking away the little hands that were pulling at her skirts, the warrior's eyes moved up to see who it was that had created such excitement. His eyes found her and quickly darted to the old woman. A smile came to his face and his eyes landed on her one more time before her attention was drawn away, a gentle hand on her arm, gently coaxing her down a row of huts. She might have been reluctant to part with the one that had gotten her through her initial days of captivity, something about the look in his eyes told her it would not be the last she would be seeing her Savage protector.

* * *

Megedagik watched the white girl being lead away by Numes. He thought of his own captive off with the Corn Eaters. Powhatan's decision to show mercy was not unexpected but Megedagik felt some relief all the same that he had allowed the colorless girl to live. He was relieved further when it was Numes that was tasked with caring for the girl. The other women that had been brought to Powhatan had been placed. Most were to be sent to neighboring villages. Others were to be dispersed within Werowocomoco. None were to be traded as slaves. None were to have sexual attentions forced upon them and if any young men decided to circumvent that ruling by tricking them into marriage there would be a harsh punishment meted out to them.

"She is like the white elk," his wife said, leaning toward him with a piece of meat on the wooden spear. She raised it toward his mouth, her fragile hand underneath to keep it from falling onto the ground. He took a bite and she took the rest. "Do they all look like that?"

"You've seen almost eleven today," he answered after he had finished eating. "Were any of them the White Elk?"

"Many had covered heads," she replied with a little out. She nibbled on the meat and then reached for one more piece.

"Why not simply leave them?" his other wife asked disinterestedly. "What purpose is served bringing them back?"

"It would be the same as death, I am most certain. Who would provide for them?"

"And is it coincidence they are all if childbearing years?" she asked coolly. Megedagik smiled.

"Jealousy is unbecoming," he told her, nudging her with his shoulder. "I've told you why I spared the Maskaana and brought her back. We'll discuss it no longer."

Chilaili giggled to his right. Aiyana hunched over to look around him. He raised a hand and both fell silent.

"I look forward to meeting her. Will she live with us?"

"She will," he answered.

"And will you take her to wife?" Aiyana asked. Her voice was cold.

"She watched her son's skull shattered before her very eyes. I doubt she will want to bind herself to any of us," he said. His eyes watched Chilaili reach forward to get another piece of meat from the fire. "And I have no desire for another mouth to feed… because _someone_ has one that is hard to fill."

Chilaili stopped, mouth open, eyes wide, meat hovering before her lips. She lowered it from her mouth and put it back on the fire. He reached out and took the spear, bringing it back to her with a wink. She giggled and took a bite of the meat. She had been devastated the day her husband died in battle, she wailed when she stood before his body before it went to the fire, but she had found solace in her new husband. When he coupled with her, frequent enough to quell her loneliness, she would sometimes whisper his dead brother's name in his ear. She would thank him when he finished, allowing her to his brother inside of her once more, and then roll over to fall asleep.

"I shall welcome her as a sister then," Chilaili said. Aiyana _humphed._ Megedagik looked over at Aiyana. Her lips pinched together and Megedagik leaned over. He put a hand to the back of her neck and put her lips to her ear.

"You've seen these white women. Have you doubts I'd want to know them carnally?"

"You do not find them beautiful?" Aiyana asked. She was the more jealous of the two, married to him not due to duty but affection and respect.

"The Maskanna, though her face swelled, is no beauty," he assured her. He pictured her now, black eyed, nose crooked, face swollen, skin smudged with blood and dirt. He could rustle up not a single image in his brain where he might find the small white woman desirable.

"Will you lay with me tonight?" Aiyana asked. Megedagik smiled and leaned down to kiss her. Aiyana's lips were soft and yielding.

"Of course."

She shot a jealous, imperious glance toward Chilaili, but the girl was seated happily beside them, nibbling on her venison and looking toward a rather public disagreement on the other side of the room with surprised curiosity.

"Megedagik."

Everyone turned silent as Powhatan spoke, voice louder than usual. Megedagik straightened, chin lifted, and looked toward their leader.

"Abooksigun and his sons have not yet heard the story of the Maskaaanna. Regale us all."

He felt Aiyana tense beside him. Chilaili turned to look at him with renewed excitement.

"Where is she?" Hassun asked, looking around in disbelief. "I do not believe this woman exists."

"The Corn Eaters," Megedagik replied. "She exists."

"Ignore Hassun," Powhatan gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "Tell me of her again."

He raised his pipe to his lips. He blew the smoke out slowly. As Megedagik began to speak, he moved his hand to the side, gently covering her small hand against the silver wolf pelt beneath them, and patting it affectionately.

* * *

Ahanu continued to look after Wawetseka and Talisa as they walked down toward the poor woman's hut. He looked over only when he felt his brother approaching him. He looked over, a small smile on his lips. It nearly faltered when his brother greeted him with a smile of his own.

"Friends," he greeted them, putting an elbow on Ahanu's shoulder.

"Off with Talisa?" Ahanu asked, unable to stop himself from showing his interest in the girl's fate.

"She is," Matunaaga replied. "Unfortunately, it won't help you any."

"Well, she'll be here, and you'll go home…" Chogan replied with a friendly smile. "Seems to help him quite a bit."

"They're ineligible for marriage," Matunaaga smiled. "And they aren't to be touched. In case they need to be ransomed."

Ahanu scoffed.

"I don't need to marry her to get her out behind the fish mill," Ahanu laughed. Melkedoodum came an approval smile and nod.

"You'd have ten wives if that was the case," Melkedoodum chuckled.

"Ahanu," Matunaaga said familiarly, putting his hands on either of his shoulders and shaking him gently. "I cut her father's throat so deep, it nearly decapitated him. I sliced her mother's throat open, right in front of her. She will let _no one_ touch her."

Ahanu put his hands on Matunaaga's shoulder, fighting the little flip his stomach did. Both brothers had smiles on their faces. Chogan and Melkedoodum chuckled. Akando looked away in disgust and crouched down to go through his basket.

"You underestimate my charm, brother," Ahanu teased. "Women love me."

Both brothers released the other.

"Women whose families were slaughtered by your hand?" Matunaaga asked with a smile, collecting his belongings.

"I did not kill them," Ahanu said dismissively. "Do you think women do not understand war?"

"Not white women," Matunaaga smirked. "I will return for the first winter squash. Bed her by then, and I might surrender that club you lost to me so long ago. Perhaps you might prove a better hunter of women then buck."

"Maize," Ahanu said. "As you've said, she's seen a lot. It will take me longer than a few weeks to make the yellow-haired girl my own."

"Maize then," Matunaaga agreed, slinging his basket over his shoulder. "So little is my faith in you."

He gave a nod to the others and began to walk off without a word.

"You want nothing should I fail?" Ahanu called after him. Matunaaga turned to face him with a smile.

"The satisfaction in knowing you are not the man you claim you to be is enough for me brother! I will say hello to father for you!"

What little smile was left on Ahanu's face slipped and he stared at his brother's retreating back, eyes glowering angrily. Chogan came closer, putting an arm around Ahanu's shoulders and touching his chest.

"I know you've taken a genuine liking to this girl," he began, softly, lacking his usual sarcasm. "But do not let your anger towards your brother turn that fondness into a game at her expense."

Ahanu looked at him quizzically.

"You think I would do that?" he asked softly.

"It is simply a word of caution," Chogan said. He grabbed his own bundle. "Excuse me. My wives are no doubt up to no good. I can only see one of them."

He let his arm fall from Ahanu and he moved on to find his family. Melkedoodum was greeting his sweetheart, smiling at her brightly as she ran into his outstretched arms. For all his bravado, Melkedoodum looked just as excited to see her as she was to see him.

Ahanu grabbed his belongings and walked slowly toward the other end of the village, giving Akando a small nod of farewell as he passed. Chogan's warning rang in his head, but he felt it was needless. His desire to be close to the girl started long before any good natured bet had been formed. An unnecessary worry from a friend that knew him better than that.

"Etchemin!" he heard a swarm of boys call as he passed by. He turned his head and looked toward them. They had their rackets in their hands, a ball at the ready. "Etchemin!"

Ahanu smiled and dropped his bag. Worries forgotten, he grabbed a racket and began to play.

* * *

The woman walked into the hut ahead of Sarah, leaving her there in the little beaten path that separated the next scattering of homes. It was one of the smaller structures within the village walls. Mats of bark and reed covered saplings lashed together to create a barrel shaped him. Two entrances on either side of the hope were left open, a thick pelt strapped and fastened to the side in case of cold weather. Sarah stared at it a long while, ignoring the curious glances she received from those passing by. With a deep breath of the crisp air she stepped inside. The ground was dirt, a large circular fire put in the center, resting beneath a large hole in the ceiling. Along both walls were bedsteads, covered with a manner of furs for conform. Around the fire were a number of different sized logs for sitting. It was utterly primitive and Sarah closed her eyes in prayer, attempting to find what little strength she still possessed.

When she opened her eyes, the woman that had lead her there crouched down before the fire, igniting the kindling and logs. Almost immediately the room began to warm. Sarah moved to sit on a log, extending her cold fingers toward the flame, her blue eyes watching the woman suspiciously. She walked over to a bedstead and hunched down. From beneath the makeshift beds, she retrieved a basket. Reaching within, she pulled out a stack of buckskin. She came forward with the bundle in her hands, offering it to Sarah with a smile and a soft word. The bundle, Sarah soon discovered, was a dress, decorated with shells and stones, frills of deer hide and beading. Sarah stared at it. Slowly, she lifted her blue gaze to the Indian woman.

The woman had a kind face. She was a few years older than her mother had been when she died. There were lines around her eyes, some lines beginning to form around her mouth. Her eyes were brown, but not dark, and her hair was long, black, and braided. Sarah looked up from the bundle and shook her head. She did not want to wear their clothing. She would not. The woman frowned and looked over her dress. Patiently, the woman turned and put the bundle on the bedstead. She walked over to kneel before Sarah. Her eyes were tired and sad. She took hold of Sarah's hands and spoke very softly to her. It was the voice a mother used to soothe a distraught child. It only made Sarah want to cry more.

Sarah looked down as the woman withdrew a single hand, bringing a brown finger to her apron. Sarah looked over the dirt, the tears in the white fabric. A long finger moved further and Sarah noticed for the first time there were spatters of blood on the white fabric. Sarah's own hands closed around the fabric, curling it into a tight ball in her closed fist. She closed her eyes and crumpled her face. She shook her head before opened her eyes. The woman smile sadly and nodded. She released Sarah's hands and moved to the side of the fire. She moved to the far door, Sarah's eyes on her the entire time, and stepped outside. Sarah looked down to her dress. She pressed her finger tips to the specks of red. A tear fell from her eye.

She slid down to her knees and moved to the other side of the little house. She found a large jug of water and reached into it, submerging her dirty hands into the cold, clean water. She turned her hands into a bowl, bringing the water to her lips and drinking greedily. She then splashed the water onto her face, letting out a deep breath of relief. It helped cool her heated skin. Soon, she was leaning on the large jug, arms on either side, hunched over and breathing hard.

"Oh mama," she whispered. "Papa. I'm scared."

She stretched out an arm, resting her face down on her bicep. She took the other hand and dipped her fingers into the water. Lifting up her hand, she dripped the cool water against her cheekbone. There was no calming the turning in her stomach or the ache in her head. She poured another handful into her mouth.

A cry ripped from her when she heard a shout of anger. In a moment she was shoved onto the floor and she looked up to see a young man standing over her. He could have been no more than fifteen but he was tall and muscular. He was clearly angry, but he dropped down to his knees not so he could strike her, but instead, to examine the now dirty water. He scooped up a handful, examined the murky water, now stained with blood, sweat, and dirt. With a cry of annoyance, he slapped the water. It sloshed along the edges, falling into the dirt, but the Indian ignored it. He turned his face toward her, total exasperation covering his features. He spoke, slapping at the water again.

Sarah pushed herself up and moved back to the door that the woman had gone through. The young man called after her. She got to the doorway and looked out, but the woman was nowhere in sight. The Indian boy continued after her, saying something. She watched him come closer and panic set in. She darted out into the path, ignoring the curious glances her way. The boy pursued, calling out. Sarah's legs began to move faster with each step and she kicked up dirt around her feet, further dirtying her dress. She hurried back to the spot where she had seen her protector but found them gone. She glanced back at the Indian boy hurrying toward her, yelling angrily. She looked left, then right, and then bolted to the side. She did not get far before she was seized by a man coming out of his own hut, holding her captive until the Indian boy arrived.

Once again she waited for the boy to arrive to strike her. She struggled to yank herself away from the man, but his grip on her bicep was too strong. She did not call for help, for she knew it would do no good. Her struggling ceased ever so slightly as she realized the man that had taken hold of her was not raising his voice in such a thunderous shout to her, but instead at the Indian boy. He raised his hands to plead his case. The man that had seized her appeared entirely unconvinced, but he still would not let her go. It was not until the woman returned that he released her. The boy tried to plead his case, but received only a slap to the ear. She collected Sarah and they were lead back to her little hut. She kept an eye on the boy beside her. He threw a glare her way, rubbing his boxed ear gingerly. She looked to the woman's head, and then with a sudden surge of confidence, shot him a childish and taunting smirk.

* * *

"Look!" Milap called as they entered their home, running over to the ruined water supply, brown eyes wide with his desperate plea of understanding. "Mama! Look what she did!"

Talisa spread out the bundle of meat and set up the pots for cooking. The white girl moved onto one of the racks where his uncle slept and nestled up against it, pulling up her feet and hugging her knees to his chest. He reached for a bowl and dunked it into the water. He walked toward the girl to show her the bowl.

"You see? Do you see?" he asked.

"Leave her alone," Talisa spoke sharply, tossing the meats into the pot for cooking.

"Mama, I filled the jug today fresh for Rowtag and Samoset's return," he complained. "And she washed in it."

"Milap," she said, looking up at him patiently. "The water is fine enough for bathing still and Rowtag can go to the river with you for drinking water. Now give her the bowl and a rag to finish her cleaning."

Milap's shoulders sagged and he looked over at Sarah. As he approached her the girl's eyes narrowed and she scooted away. He held out the bowl to her. Her pale blue eyes remained on him, but her face was blank. She blinked at him.

"Is she dumb?" he asked.

"She has suffered quite a bit. Just put it down."

Milap put the bowl down beside her and moved to sit with his mother.

"Will she live with us?" he asked. He looked over at the newcomer. She had the bowl in her hand and pulled it closer to her.

"She will."

"Forever?"

"I do not know," she answered. "If they stay here with us, then yes…"

Milap grunted and looked over at her. She was looking in their direction as she pulled the covering from the top of her head. Her hair was the color of straw, an odd color, one not at all pleasing to the eye. He pitied her. She would have a hard time finding a husband looking like that. The girl straightened her hair and wiped her face. She tied the yellow hair back with a ribbon before covering her hair once again.

"Milap?"

"Yes, mama?" he asked.

"Fetch the crushing stone."

He crawled over and retrieved it for his mother, surrendering it and shooting another furtive glance toward the white woman. She was scrubbing at the white cloth draped over her dress. She scrubbed frantically. It took him a moment to realize she was crying.

"Mama?" he asked softly, scooting around the fire to kneel beside her. "Where was she taken?"

"I am not sure," Talisa asked. "But I am under the impression she saw her family killed."

"Why bring her back?"

"When you go to battle you will understand, Milap. It does not come natural in the heart of a man to murder an innocent."

Milap got to his feet and walked through the door on the other side of their home, passing by the white girl. He paused, trying to discern what it was she was doing. He moved on with a start when she looked up abruptly. Pale eyes glowered with wet rage and he darted through the door. He moved on through the village, ducking his head in longhouses as he went, looking for his brother and uncle. He got to the center of town and found that most men had returned to their homes, leaving only a few unmarried men from other villages to remain.

"Milap!"

He whirled around and smiled when he found his uncle and brother coming out of Powhatan's lodge. He ran toward them, telling them excitedly as they walked that they had a white woman in their lodge, but adding indignantly that she ruined their water.

"Mother says Rowtag and I must refill it later, but _she_ was the one that ruined it so I think we should make her go down to the river and carry the buckets back up. I spent all morning carrying the water, and it's woman's work anyway," Milap said. "I don't think I should be forced to go back down since I spent all morning getting the water and Rowtag was walking all day. I think –"

"I can fetch enough water for the night," Rowtag cut him off. He fixed the strap of the basket slung over his shoulder. "It is no bother."

"But –"

"Milap," Samoset hushed him, a hand to the shoulder. "Did you bag a buck like I asked?"

Milap felt his face turn hot and the water was momentarily forgotten.

"I didn't," he answered. Rowtag smothered a smile and Milap flushed angrily. "I got two foxes and a duck."

"You did well," Samoset praised. They entered the hut and Milap fell silent.

Rowtag was greeted with a warm hug and a kiss. Samoset received a gentle pat to the cheek from his sister. The white girl was seated in the corner, her ugly pale eyes darting between the new comers. She looked like a rabid animal. Mistrusting and deranged, ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Dangerous. Rowtag seemed unconcerned and moved over to the soiled water and, gripping both sides of the jug and plunged his entire head inside. He whipped his head back, sending water into the air and spattering Milap. Rowtag straightened and ran a hand through his hair. The sides of his head were shaved, the top of his head had hair grown out, but short. Once slicked back he tied is at the crown of his head. As he did he walked over to the pale girl.

"Samoset," Milap asked as he settled down by the fire. "Is she soulless?"

Somoset looked back at the girl.

"Her coloring has nothing to do with a lack of a soul," Samoset answered knowingly. The girl tied the covering on her head more tightly, covering the yellow hair from view. Clearly, her own people must find the color just as offensive as he did. "Rowtag leave her be."

Rowtag looked over in surprise but then looked back at the girl. He gave her one last smile before he came to the fire.

"She can take my spot," Rowtag said. He reached into the pot and retrieved a partially cooked piece of meat. He plopped it between his lips and chewed with an open mouth, breathing in hard to try and cool his mouth. "For sleeping."

"She'll sleep nowhere near you, boy," Samoset replied. Rowtag flashed his brilliant smile. Milap looked over at the girl. She hugged her knees to her chest, burying her face in her knees. The only sign that was crying again were the intermittent sniffles that came softly from the corner.

* * *

Talisa smiled as she kissed her eldest goodnight. He lay against the wall, a thick fur covering him, already in the land of dreams. She looked over his face a long while, enjoying the look of peace on his handsome face. She stroked his hair a few seconds more. She moved over to Milap, petulant boy that he could be. She kissed his forehead, whispering softly to him. She pulled the fur up and tucked it beneath his chin. A little smile came to her lips as she moved to place another log on the hot coals. Slowly the smile slipped from her face. Her eyes moved over to the white child pressed against the far wall, wrapped in a bundle of furs.

Talisa picked up the crushing stone and sprinkled a mixture of herbs within it. She carefully ground it up into fine powder, mixing it with the hot water she took from the fire. She crouched down before the girl, listening to her soft whimpers, saw the fear as it took hold of her face, the rapid movement beneath her lids. She placed a hand to her hot forehead, wiped the sweat from her brow.

"Shh, shhh," she whispered softly as she tried to rouse her from her nightmare. "Shhh, child."

She awoke with a start, a choked sob ripping from her throat. Panic remained even as her brilliant blue eyes opened wide and scanned the lodge. She looked to Talisa, a cry leaving her. Talisa reached to steady her arms.

"No," was the sound that left the girl. "No, no!"

"Shh, shhh," Talisa soothed. The girl quieted and stared at her, wide eyes and trembling, cheeks wet. "Hush, sweet child."

Talisa patted her cheek gently. The girl allowed her to remove the sweaty covering from her head. She placed it down and gently stroked the girl's hair.

"We won't hurt you, dear girl," she promised softly. She lifted the cup. "Drink this and sleep."

She looked down at the cup in her hands. Slowly, pale hands came up to take the cup and lift the liquid to her lips. She pulled back with a disgusted grimace, braced herself, and downed the tea. When she handed it back, she was already growing tired. Talisa dropped the cup to the floor and gently helped the girl lower herself back to the ground.

"Sleep now," Talisa soothed. Gently she stroked her hair. The girl looked up at her, blue eyes tired, but clearly distrusting. Talisa smiled sadly. "Poor child. The things you've seen…"

The girl's eyes fluttered closed and Talisa sung softly to her, the song she used to sing to her daughter. The girl's eyes finally closed and sleep took her once again. Talisa remained beside her, gently stroking her hair, lamenting on the loss of her own daughter.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be very much appreciated!! 
> 
> Thank you to those who took the time to comment.

V

Sarah was fed in the morning. She sat around the fire with the Indian family, nibbling on some meat, eyes down toward the dirt floor. The dress was offered to her once again. This time, the Indian boy took it in his arms and thrust it at her. She took the dress back just long enough to thrust it back into his arms. Such force was employed that when her hand slammed into his chest the boy went stumbling backwards. His legs caught the edge of the water basin, and he went tumbling to the ground, the dress in his arms.

She looked down at him with a blank face, smoothing out her dress. The boy jumped up, throwing the dress to the ground and came close to her. It was an attempt to intimidate her. Even obviously a few years younger than Sarah, he already possessed the height of a man, and he loomed over her. Part of her was more frightened of him than even the beasts that had murdered everyone she knew and loved. This was a petulant child with the body of a man.

But she stood her ground, glaring up at him with burning rage in her eyes. It helped that she knew the woman and the older young man were already coming toward them. The woman nudged her backwards, an arm around her shoulder and the other boy gently shoved the angry Indian back. They left the hut and Sarah moved to sit down at the bench, wrenching her arm free from the woman. The woman was speaking to her, shaking her head and poking at the pot above the flames. Sarah, ignored her and ran a hand over her hair.

"Where is my bonnet?" she asked. The woman turned to look at her. Sarah tapped the top of her head. She wanted her hair covered. "My bonnet. Bonnet."

The woman got up to her feet and motioned for Sarah to follow. She did and found the bonnet drying on a bench outside. It had been cleaned. It looked almost as white as it was meant to be. She thanked her as she picked it up and covered her head. The woman looked at her, gave her a sad little smile. She walked toward Sarah and put her hands on her shoulders. She spoke softly a few moments and then nodded silently.

"Talisa," the woman said, touching her chest.

"Talisa?" Sarah asked.

"Talisa," the woman nodded.

"Sarah," Sarah told her. She jabbed her chest with her finger. "Sarah."

"Sarah," Talisa smiled. Her gaze turned sad again and she nodded slowly. She spoke and made a motion with two fingers over her shoulder, beckoning Sarah to follow. She was lead down a little path, down along the bank some ways, and stopped at a group of people. There were Indian women and crouched down at the water's edge, scrubbing out clothing and sharing laughs and smiles with each other. At the far end she spotted three white women. As they walked toward them, Sarah did her best to see if they were her companions from her journey. She was disappointed to find they were not.

She was directed to a woman who was seated on a long with a few others, happily mending clothing. She looked up at Sarah with critical, dark eyes. She was beautiful, even with her copper skin and black hair. Younger than Talisa, but older than Sarah.

As she conversed with Talisa, Sarah looked around at the mounds of clothing they were scrubbing at the river side. She looked over the bloody clothing the savages had discarded upon their arrival home. That she could stomach. It was something to be expected. It was not until she found the mound of colonial clothing, stained red, that her stomach sank and a violent breath was sucked in through her nose.

Talisa and the woman stopped speaking. The woman's dark eyes twinkled as she looked at Sarah. Sarah kept her gaze locked on hers until Talisa spoke again, drawing the woman's attention. When they finished speaking she was brought over the water's edge. Sarah did not wait for Talisa to tell her what to do. She knew what she was being forced to do. She dropped to her knees, picked up a man's shirt, stained more with dirt than blood.

"They just want the cloth," the girl next to her said. She was scrubbing at a shirt, tears in glistening on her flushed cheeks. She was dressed in an Indian dress. The others were as well. Sarah looked down at the shirt. "They're no reason to make us wash out the blood. They can just cut around it. _Savages."_

"Be quiet, Peggy," another woman whispered. Peggy continued to scrub violently, sniffling hard. Sarah scrubbed at the shirt, submerging it in the cold water. They were at least provided with a scraper to help clean.

"How many?" Sarah suddenly asked. "How many died?"

"Who knows," the woman that had scolded Peggy whispered. She glanced over her shoulder as the Indian women mending clothing behind them. "I lived in Smith's hundred. They burned everything… they… my husband. My two boys…"

Her lower lip quivered and she closed her eyes.

"Henricus," a girl said. "They burned the school first… my baby brother and…my father. I think my mother lived."

Sarah looked down at the shirt in her hand. She wondered who it belonged to, what poor soul was once attached to the stained fabric. She shook her head and continued to scrub at the fabric.

"I live with the man that murdered my family…" Peggy gritted out.

There was suddenly a shout. They all turned to see an Indian woman behind them, yelling at them to be quiet or to continue working or both. It was anyone's guess. All the women fell silent and continue to scrub, but the Indian did not leave. She continued to speak, this time pulling at the sleeve of Sarah's dress. Sarah tried to shrug away but it was to now avail. The woman shook her head, continued to scold, and tried to remove Sarah's bonnet.

"Stop it," Sarah said, panic rising. She didn't want them to see her hair. "Stop it!"

The woman continued to pull and Sarah slapped at her hands. Only a call from the other side of the bank stopped the woman from pulling at her bonnet. Everyone looked over to see who it was that was calling over to them. Sarah felt a sense of relief as she spotted him on the other bank, shirtless, standing over a large log that looked to be on fire. There were two men with him. She recognized them and assumed they were the ones that she had traveled with. They were seated on the bank side as her protector worked. He and the woman conversed a short while. It was clearly an argument. Finally, the woman went away.

Her protector went back to his business without even a glance in her direction. Sarah looked back to her linen and continued so scrub. She felt a little better knowing he was just across the water.

* * *

The next few days she fell into a routine. She went out in the morning, usually to prepare the fields for planting. To her surprise, it was the women that seemed in charge of this task. A little bit past midday, she would be taken from the fields to help Talisa replenish the pot at the family hut. There was no set time for eating, and throughout the day they were expected to replenish it. During this time, she would be given lessons in their language.

Talisa was a kind woman. She kept her fed and watched out for her as best she could, but too often, when Talisa was away, Sarah found herself the victim of cruel boys and hateful women. They were not plentiful. It was always the same ones. The problem laid in those who were indifferent. They're were far too many of them. When she received a vicious lash from the woman in charge of her and two other white women in the fields, none of the others seemed to mind that the only thing she had done to earn such a punishment was possess blue eyes and blond hair.

The woman would make her stand in the field, point to her eyes, and berate her. She would be slapped on the side of the head, forced back down into the dirt, and be made to build the little mounds that would soon hold the seeds for the next harvest. Sarah knew enough of planting to know that they were waiting to be sure the last of the hard frosts had passed. When she went home with a welt on her cheek one day, Talisa looked at her sadly and simply shook her head.

They did not like that she refused from abstaining from speaking English. How she could speak to the other white women, Peggy and Rebecca, in a language that none of them knew, when they had a perfectly civilized means of communication so readily available, she would never understand. When Peggy or Rebecca could not understand their savage captors, she would explain to them their wishes in English, taking their beatings for misunderstanding, and making it her own for speaking in their native tongue.

It was now her task to refresh the water in the late afternoon. She had discovered that the water was brought up from the river by a large bucket. The basin was filled and when they wished to drink or wash, they filled up one of the little bowls beside the basin, as to not dirty the supply. It was usually refilled every other day. She had gone once with Rowtag. He showed her where they collected the water. Upstream, so they knew it was clean, and lead her down the trail.

She was almost fond of Rowtag. He had a kind smile and, though he could be quite forceful, especially when yelling at his brother, he never raised his voice to her. Even when she dropped a jar while cooking, breaking the pottery and spilling the contents into the fire, losing it forever, he spoke softly and calmly as he scolded her.

She was told to go again by being handed the bucket just after her last language lesson. Rowtag motioned toward the trail and the put a large hand on her lower back, gently guiding her in that direction. She hesitated when he did not follow.

"Rowtag?" she called. He was walking in the direction and turned to look back at her. "You… too?" she asked. At least, that was what she thought she asked. He shook his head and said something she recognized, but could not remember the actual meaning. She sighed and turned to gaze down at the trail. It was not something she wanted to do, but she knew she would be punished if she refused. Talisa was kind. She took care of her. But clearly, based on the welt on her cheek, she would not shield her from physical punishment. Sarah knew Milap was just waiting for a reason to hit her. Rowtag was kind, but had not known the same willingness to shield her from abuse. He had not been phased when he spotted the welt on her face. He had only laughed softly and patted her other cheek.

She stumbled as she walked down the winding trail. Her dress was frayed at the bottom. It was filthy. She was covered in dirt from the fields. She had been forced to discard her white apron the day before; It was no longer white. She did make Talisa promise, as best they could speaking two entirely different languages, not to discard it or cut it up for household tasks. It was still securely beneath her bedding.

She got to the water with little trouble. Luckily, very few of the savages paid them much mind. It was only when she made eye contact that she would get odd looks. Some were disgusted. Some were frightened. Others simply looked on with wonder. So she walked with her head down, eyes down, and got to the water. She filled it to the brim. Rather a few hard trips than almost double with a lesser load.

On her second pass, she tripped on a root. She stumbled forward and dropped the bucket. It fell to the ground. She stood there a few moments, staring down blankly at the spilled water. She sighed and leaned against a tree. Slowly, she lowered herself to the forest floor and gave herself a long rest. It was peaceful, being away from the village, away from the fields, away from the savages. She took the time to think of her family. Alice. Everyone. All dead.

A little cry escaped her when suddenly there was a body standing beside her. She looked up and scrambled away on her bottom, blue eyes wide. She hopped up, but did not flee. He was smiling at her, leaning calmly against the tree. He looked at the bucket of water and spoke.

"I…" she trailed off, worried he might grow angry if she spoke English. She wracked her mind. It took her a moment. "Water," she said. He smiled brightly and she knew she had said it correctly. His smile dissipated. He looked to her cheek and reached out. A gentle hand touched her cheek. His thumb trailed over the welt. It stung and she stepped back with a flinch.

She picked up the bucket and motioned to the river. She walked passed him back toward the water. He was silent, but she could feel him walking behind her. She rolled her lips inward, glancing back at him curiously. He lifted his lips when she did and she turned back around. She wished she knew how to say thank you. She had learned it. The word eluded her now.

She got back to the water and stepped into the water. Her shoes were already soaked. She would take them off once she got back into the hut and laid on her spot in the hut. The furs were quite comfortable, and she did not need to get her feet dirty on the dirt floor. She stepped out of the water, muscles trembling as she carried the bucket out of the water. The Indian took it from her just as her feet were on dry land.

"Thank you," she said softly. He carried it along the trail, all the way to the hut, and stepped inside to dunk the water into the basin. It was nearly half way full. Nowhere near the line Rowtag had showed her a few days before. He kept the bucket and moved on past her. He paused when she did not follow. He motioned for her to follow, calling something to her. She followed, moving her feet quickly to catch up with him.

He walked down the trail at a decent speed, though he was not walking quickly. It was simply the long strides of his legs. He was shirtless. The day was still warm, the warmest of the season, and many of the men had stripped down for the day. He had markings on his body. Dark bands around his arms. Lines down his chest. They got to the water and she reached out. He paused. Her finger touched the hot skin of his arm, applying pressure. It was not paint. It did not smudge. She looked up at him and blushed.

"Sorry," she apologized in English. He held out and arm. He spoke. Permission she thought. She hesitated a moment, looking to him quizzically. She reached out and touched the strange markings. She could not feel them. It felt just the same as his skin. She could not help but laugh slightly. She poked at his arm. She pressed a nail to it and tried to scrape it off. She wanted to ask him what it was and how they did it, but she had no words. She removed her hand and thanked him again.

He filled the bucket with water, but this time, he just placed it on the bank. He tapped his head. She stared, unsure what it was he wanted. With a smile he lifted his hands. They hovered by her a head a moment, his dark eyes twinkling questioningly. When she said nothing, he gently pulled at the string of her bonnet. She tensed by did not ask him to stop. It was only fair.

He pulled at the strings gently. He said something and tapped his cheek, just under his eye. His fingers slipped beneath her bonnet, brushing it off her head gently. He smiled as he looked at her hair. She swallowed when he reached up and pinked a loose strand, gently tugging it from the ribbon at the back of her neck.

She knew that they did not share the customs they did. This was not as inappropriate to him as it was to her. She reached up and pulled at the ribbon that tied her hair. Her blond hair fell loose and his lips parted. He took a step closer. She stumbled away, feet stopping just at the edge of the water. He lifted some hair with his fingers, running his thumb over the strands in slight wonder.

He said something, looking back at her hair. He looked back up. He simply stared at her, eyes locked on her. Her hair was still between his fingers, gently caressed by the savage's copper hand.

"Askuweteau," he said, touching his chest.

"Asku…Askuwe –"

She broke off with a little laugh and shook her head. He still had her hair in his hand. He was smiling at her.

"Etchemin?"

"Etchemin?" she repeated. He dropped her hair and continued to speak. He made a motion before him. Pointed to a tree, and then made the motion of rowing a boat. He patted his chest. "Etchemin." She made the motion. "Like a canoe? A boat."

He tilted his head. He leaned in closer and said softly, "Ahanu."

He tapped himself. She frowned.

"All of them?" she asked. His lips twitched. "Oh…" she pointed to him. "Asku… Askuwe… Etchemin. Ahanu. You?"

He nodded.

"Ahanu," she said. He put a finger to his lips and then winked. He patted her shoulder.

"Sarah," she said. "Sarah Thatcher."

Sarathatcher," he said all in one breath.

"No. Sarah. Thatcher," he blinked. "Sarah."

"Sarah," he repeated, trying it on for size. "Wawetseka."

Her brow furrowed.

"Wawetseka," he said again. He reached up and touched her hair again. He seemed quite fond of it. "Water," he suddenly said, dropping her hair. He retrieved the bucket and picked it up. She walked beside him back to the hut, retying her hair and putting it back in the bonnet. He poured the water into the basin, speaking to her as he did. He touched her bonnet.

"Salali! Salali!"

Sarah turned as Milap came running toward them.

"Salali?" Ahanu asked with a frown. It was what Milap called her, no matter how many times she tried to tell him her name was Sarah.

Milap ran up, speaking to Ahanu insistently. He grabbed the bucket from his hand and threw it at Sarah's feet. He gestured wildly. He stopped suddenly when Ahanu reached out and pressed on Milap's chest. A laugh escaped Sarah. She raised her hands to cover her mouth and stifle her laughter. Milap got up angrily, shouted at Ahanu, and hurried off.

Ahanu bent down and picked up the bucket. He began walking back to the trail, bucket in hand. Contentedly, she hurried after him.

* * *

Ahanu sat with Chogan and Melkedoodum on the grass by the fields, enjoying the rays of the sun as they beat down against them. The women were finishing up the last of the preparations for spring planting. It was too early still, and their reserves would have to do until Powhatan and the council felt it was safe to plant.

Ahanu lay on his side, plucking at the still brown grass. His eyes were off on the distance, watching the pretty girl in the filthy dress and the white bonnet kneel in the dirt, gently digging little mounds in preparation for the seeing.

"She looks ridiculous," Melkedoodum drawled. He was on his back, looking up at the sun.

"She's just waiting for Etchemin to help her out of it," Chogan snickered. He was throwing a ball up in the air.

"I'll help her out of it," he replied.

Ahanu just laughed softly. He looked out at her. He felt a stirring deep into his bones. He dug his fingers into the dirt. He could still feel her hair in his fingers.

"Askuweteau," Melkedoodum asked. "What position will you put her in? The first time you fuck her?"

He rolled onto his side, arm outstretched, a smile on his face. Ahanu simply looked at him, an amused glare on his face.

"If I thought that Amadahy would not leave me for another, I'd go after her myself," Melkedoodum said.

"You can hardly support _one_ wife. Try and prove yourself worthy of another," Chogan laughed.

"Be quiet," Ahanu said and sat up.

"I'm just saying, even if Amadahy would allow a second wife, which we all know she wouldn't, no other woman would think him worthy of marriage –"

"Wawetseka!" he called, shouting over Chogan. "Wawetseka."

" _Wawetseka,_ " Melkedoodum snickered. "And I _could_ support two wives. I don't want two wives."

"Sarah!"

Chogan looked up in surprise.

Ahanu smiled when she turned in surprise. She was almost off to the side, taking their late morning break for a bite to eat. She paused when she saw him. He raised a hand and crooked a finger. She glanced over her shoulder at the other white women, all dressed in fine new dresses. She came before them, rubbing her hands nervously in front of her.

"Sit down," Ahanu said, motioning to the spot between Chogan and Melkedoodum. She said something and motioned over her shoulder. "Don't worry. Sit."

"Tell her to take her clothes off," Melkedoodum suggested. Chogan snorted. She sat down and looked between them nervously.

"Take it off," Ahanu said, pointing to his head. "The cover."

She bit her bottom lip and looked over her shoulder. Hesitantly, she raised her hands and removed the cover. Ahanu handed over a small pouch of nuts and dried berries to her. He handed over his canteen next. She drank greedily, she ate happily, and he was content to simply watch her.

"Um," she said, putting down the pouch with the berry and nuts. She reached out and grabbed and the salted fish that Chogan had been eating. Chogan said nothing, but shot such a look of disbelief that Melkedoodum chuckled softly. "Thank you."

Melkedoodum began to laugh loudly. Ahanu gave a little nod.

"Thank you," he corrected her. She blushed.

"Thank you," she mumbled. Ahanu reached out and grabbed a berry from the pouch.

"What is this?" he asked. She reached for it and he pulled it back. "What is it?"

She looked at it a moment and then pointed to Chogan's fish.

"Fish."

Ahanu laughed. "It is. Do you know what this is?"

A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. His eyes went to her mouth. His eyes darted upward again. She shrugged and said something.

"A berry," he told her, handing it to her. She took it and plopped it between her lips.

"A-ahnu?" she asked. Chogan sat up abruptly. Ahanu tensed.

"You gave her your personal name?"

"What were you thinking?" Melkedoodum asked.

"She won't hurt me," Ahanu rushed out. Wawetseka looked confused at the reaction. He scooted closer. "You need to call me Etchemin or Askuweteau when we are with people. Do you understand that?"

She looked frightened. He reached up and touched a stand of hair. He twirled it around his finger.

"Wawetseka," he murmured. "Only you can call me that. When we are alone. Or with close friend. Close friends. Understand?"

She looked at him.

"Etchemin," he told her. She nodded.

"Etchemin," she repeated. "I'm sorry."

He nodded and gave a tight smile. Of course, they would have taught her that.

"No worries," he smiled. He looked at the strand of hair twirled around his finger. He looked back at and smiled.

"The break's over!" Aiyana called. Ahanu looked up.

"Go on now," he said. He nudged her along and she grabbed his canteen, taking a few more sips of water. She gave it back and got up. She said something and then hurried back into the fields.

"I'd fuck her," Melkedoodum said.

"You gave her your _name?_ " Chogan asked.

Ahanu said nothing. He simply stared as she walked back out toward the field. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his teeth. His bones continued to hum. That girl would be his. He promised himself in that moment, as she fell to her knees and began to dig in the dirt, he'd make her his.


	6. VI

VI

When Alice woke up, the day was cold, but so tightly bundled was she in the plethora of animal furs, that as she tried sleepily to free her arms from her cocoon, her hair and face was slick with sweat. Her eyes were soar, they felt puffy, and she fought with the blankets, a little whimper of frustration escaping her lips. She licked her lips, throat screaming out for a drop of ale. Her head still ached and her eyes hurt to move beneath her lids. A louder whimper of discontent left her. She tried to kick a leg free but she was wrapped up tightly. Just as her eyes finally fluttered open, she shut them tightly once again. Sun streamed in from the far side of the hut, blinding her sore eyes with its unforgiving light.

A woman hummed somewhere in the hut. Children laughed in the distance. She continued her fight with the blankets as a nearby fire cackled. There was a sudden flurry of excitement. Women speaking softly but quickly among themselves and she felt a gentle hand press to her forehead. A soft voice designed to soothe and a gentle smile. Her brow furrowed as she worked up the courage to force her eyes open once again. This time a body blocked out most of the harsh light. She looked around the room she was on. A small hut. Furs on the floor, hanging from the walls. Strange pottery and buckets. She looked to the old woman speaking to her. She very softly spoke, stroking her sweaty hair back from her aching face.

"Wha –" she breathed. A woman crept down beside her with a jug of water. She put it to Alice's lips. She drank. She was too thirsty not to. Her eyes did not track. They moved from side to side with uncontrolled jerks. The women would not focus, but she knew what they were. Alice shook her head. The water spilled over her chest and tried to move her arms. The old woman tried to soothe her, but Alice only cared that the blankets were being removed from her. The blankets fell and her bare breasts were met with the warm air of the fire and the frigid breeze wafting gently in from the outside. Her nipples hardened and bumps spread over her skin.

A dress was handed to her and she reached for it. She ripped it from the woman's hands. Her limbs trembled so badly that she needed assistance putting it on. It was put on over her head and she scrambled forward. Her heart was pounding and her breathing was labored. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs. A woman tried to stop her, but she tried to be far too gentle. Alice pushed her to the side and scrambled up to her feet. She stumbled from the hut, raising a hand to cover her eyes. She pressed another hand to her chest.

She spun around, squinting into the sunlight. A few people turned to look at her, concerned frowns on the faces of some, indifferent wonder on others. She spun around, trying to find a familiar face, but every gaze that looked back at her was dark, every face brown. Someone came out of a hut. Another deep breath left her. She saw a man coming toward her. Her brow furrowed as she looked at him. He came closer, out of the sunlight. She recognized him. It was the man that saved her life. That tried to…

_William is dead._

Her lower lip trembled and she spun around again. A sob left her and she raised her hands to the side of her head, pressing down firmly. She pulled at her hair lightly.

"William," she cried, voice shaking. She swallowed another sob and turned to look at him. Tall, broad shouldered, ornately decorated, dark furs draped over his shoulder. "My William."

He came toward her. His hands were large and warm as they enclosed around her forearm. Her knees weakened. He held her firmly. She swayed and he said something, voice deep and gravelly. He turned her with a gentle force and pushed her back toward the hut she had come from. She swayed as she was lead back and blinked rapidly. She was greeted by a little girl and a mug of steaming water.

"No," she whispered. She shook her head. The girl said something and held it up. Alice reached out, smacking it from her hands. It clattered to the ground and the girl backed up, yelling angrily. Alice was moved to the side by the powerful hands of the warrior savage and lowered back to the ground gently. She stared out with aching eyes. A hot cup of water was put back in front of her. She stared at it and then shook her head slowly. She said something, touching the back of her neck and trying to bring her closer. She reached out again, smacking the away from her. The woman sucked in a sharp breath as the hot water spilled onto her skin.

The man spoke. His hand went to her neck. He squeezed gently. He held out another hand and another wooden mug was given to him. His words were stern as he brought it back to her lips. She took a sip, but it burned her tongue. She grimaced, but accepted another sip. Finally, he let go of her neck. He put the mug down, spoke briefly with the old woman, and then left the hut. The old woman came closer. She spoke softly. She reached out again to stroke her hair. Alice reached out again. Her hand slapped down on her hand hard. The sound of skin colliding with skin filled the hut.

She turned her gaze toward the woman. Hard. Steely. Hateful. The woman sighed, eyes sad. She gave a small nod as she moved over to the fire. Alice sat in silence, staring off into space, thinking of a red cheeked little boy with big brown eyes. When the bowl of food was put into her hands, she sent it flinging across the hut, and slamming to the floor.

* * *

Alice felt a shiver rip through her as she looked out across the water to the trees on the other bank. The river was not so wide here, and though it was still cold, some of the boys thought it would be fun to try and swim to the other side in the frigid depths. It disturbed her peace just until a gaggle of furious mothers came racing to the shore, ordering them back to the tiny little smattering of huts to get warm. She envied them their anger. She was left alone after that. Left to her grief. Left to stare out across the quickly moving water, all the while trying to figure out why God had been so cruel as to keep her alive. If He wanted William, why not take her as well? It was a cruelty she had never known Him to possess.

_I do not ask for him back, I beg you let me join him._

Her head still hurt. Her face ached and her fingers throbbed, but the tea the old woman gave her kept her mostly numb, a warm feeling buzzing in her head. It still did nothing to diminish the ache in her heart. She prayed for Lawrence. She allowed herself to hope he still lived.

Three days passed like this. In the morning she would eat. Once finished, she would rise silently from her corner in the hut, wrap a thin blanket around her, and move out into the sunlight. Heads would turn to examine her, but no one ever spoke to her. She would walked down the embankment, find a dry spot to sit, and stare out at the threes across the forest. Sometimes she would see savages on canoes floating by, waiving happily to those on shore. One the second day of her captivity within the village, a young man and his friends brought the canoe to shore to ask about her.

Mostly she was left alone. The old woman, who she came to know as Pauwau, would bring her something to eat about midday. Alice would ignore it until she felt a painful ache in her stomach. Sometimes, children would hide in the brush about her, hoping to get a peak at her. If they wanted to see her because of the color of her skin or the dark bruises that still covered it she was uncertain. She let them look. She did not have the energy to scold or shoo them away. When the sun began to set and the air turned too cold she would rise from her spot, collect the blanket around her tightly, and walk back to the hut.

The man that had spared her, tried to spare her child, would be in the hut by then, listening to the old woman tell stories. Alice walked passed him, ignoring his stony gaze, and settle in the corner. A bite to eat and she would drink the tea Pauwau gave her greedily. Stronger than it was during the day. It helped keep her nightmares at bay. She would then settle down in her furs and watch the flames until sleep overtook her.

Not once did she say a single word to any of them.

She was tempted from time to time to ask her rescuer why he spared her. She would not know the words to use even if she had made the attempt to speak, but she kept silent in the end. To speak to them would somehow make it all seem alright. To speak to them would make them would somehow tell them she did not hate them, that she did not think them a terrible kind of savage. _Subhuman,_ she thought as she watched them pick up their food in their fingers, seated in the dirt, clothing made from the skin of animals, living in the untamed wilderness.

Another shiver ripped through her but she fought the urge to go back to the hut early. She did not want to look at their faces, have to ignore their curious looks and insistent pestering.

"Maskaanna."

It was what they called her. She wanted to tell them her name was Alice. Instead, she simply refused to answer to it, but they still did not stop. She only wished she knew what sort of insult it was.

"Maskaanna."

Her rescuer walked around her and knelt down. She looked away from the trees in the distance to look at him. His earrings rattled. His necklace's clinked. His face was unpainted. His brow and nose were prominent, cheekbones high, face thin. He was not at all repulsive and Alice wondered once again if his purposes of sparing her was to force her to lie with him. His eyes were dark and searching, though not aggressive, not the gaze of a predator. Yet he was. A murderer and a predator. She blinked at him, eyes aching slightly.

He tried to speak, voice low and gravelly, words slow as if it might help her understand. He made a number of hand motions. All went misunderstood by Alice. He motioned to the water, to himself, to her. He patted his temple, tapped a finger just beneath his eye. She merely blinked at him. She gave him no reason to believe she understood, made no attempt to try and clarify his meaning. He paused when he realized it would do no good and sighed. He looked out toward the sun and sighed. His chin was flat, his face dropping almost at an angle beneath his nose, giving him an odd appearance.

Slowly he rose, looming over her. She looked up at him, waiting for him to make up his mind. Without a change in her facial expression, she watched him remove the thick pelt from his shoulders. Beneath he wore little. Breechcloth and leggings, moccasin boots. Atop, he wore nothing but the array of jewelry he had draped over his neck and around his arms. His arms were well defined, his abdomen just as well, and as she looked over the corded muscles of his arms and upper torso, she lamented on how little a chance they ever really had against these beasts. More animal than human, they were built for battle, designed to kill. As lacking in morality as they were in etiquette. She fought a flinch as he moved toward her. A sickening rush of adrenaline sent waves of nausea coursing through her. But he only draped the pelt around her shoulders. She was all at once awash with warmth. It was thick, warm from his body heat, and wrapped her fully, blocking her from the smallest of breezes.

She looked up, a _thank you,_ on the tip of her tongue. Her lips parted, she took a breath, but she said nothing. She looked back down, chin still elevated toward him. Slowly she lowered it once again. She looked back out the trees. She thought she saw an eagle.

* * *

The next day she watched as her rescuer knelt down before a large basket and put in a bundle of items. Some dried meats, blankets, another dress Pauwau had given her. He wore a warm shirt. A strange type of coat over that. She was wrapped in a pelt that Pauwau had given her. He rose, placing the basket over his shoulders. He spoke to her. She blinked at him. He nodded silently. The old woman came up, patting her on the cheek as she spoke softly to her. Alice said nothing as she moved away. No others stepped forward to say their goodbyes and she was grateful for it.

They stopped briefly by the largest hut within the little smatterings of huts. Her rescuer went inside and returned just a few moments later. He did not try to speak to her this time. She walked behind him as he walked through the forest trail down to the river. Her legs were heavy, her head still ached, and she gently tapped the area beneath her ear. She sucked in a breath as she tapped just a bit too hard. He turned his head to look at her and then straightened forward once again. He stopped before a canoe and threw his basket inside. He helped her into the front of the canoe. She climbed in without a word, glancing out nervously at the water. She gripped the sides of the canoe tightly as he pushed it into the frigid water. As he jumped in behind her she put out her hand to test the water.

She was already pulling it back when he spoke to her, presumably telling her not to reach over the head. She put her hand back into water, pulling it free only when she felt it was her own decision. The current took them most of the way. It moved quickly with the last of the melting snow. Neither spoke, though more than once he began to sing softly behind her. A low little rumble of a song he liked. He could cut off, sometimes abruptly, other times because he no longer felt like singing. She was not bothered as much as she might have been had she not had such a strong cup of tea that morning.

She did not want to get out of the canoe when it was driven into the bank and he jumped into the water to drag the canoe the rest of the way to shore. He left her there in the canoe and disappeared into the tree line. She leaned back gazing up at the trees. She was asleep when he returned, at her side and pulling her to her feet. The sun had hardly moved. He dragged the canoe into the brush and lead her a short ways into the forest. A shiver coursed through her as she sat down and before he set about lighting a fire, he retrieved another pelt to wrap her in. She watched, content and warm with the large bear pelt wrapped around her.

The sun was still high in the sky, but Alice settled back against her tree and let her eyes flutter closed. She wouldn't be able to travel much more, even if she wanted. Her head hurt and her eyes were blurry. All she wanted to do was go to sleep. He spoke and her eyes popped open. He provided her with some salted fish. She reached for it slowly, bringing it to her lips to nibble on it. He disappeared again and she looked into the fire he left her with. She thought of her son's big brown eyes, his sweet little cheeks and the sound of his voice. She bit into the fish, chewing on a moment before her mouth opened and a broken sob escaped her. Her mouth hung open, fish on her tongue. Tears slipped from her eyes and her shoulders shook.

She wiped her cheeks, shaking her head with closed eyes. She sniffled. She straightened. She tried to collect herself. When her eyes finally opened, she found the Indian seated across from her, crouched before the fire. His eyes were on her. He looked almost pained. His face said very little. It was not an expressive countenance. His eyes spoke for him.

Her lower lip trembled and she sucked in a breath. She hiccuped. Her eyes were on him the whole while. She tried to find the strength to collect herself, but the pain was far too great. Her little boy, gone so soon, and for what? The savage had not even taken anything.

Finally, he stood. Her eyes ripped from his gaze and she looked down, examining her hands. She was started when he crouched before her. Puffy, pink red eyes, surrounded by purple skin looked up to him. Gently, he brought a scrap of some sort of cloth to her face. He wiped at her cheek tenderly, those dark eyes shining with regret, but his soft dabbing did not last long. It was almost frightening, the rapidness in which she collected herself. Suddenly, abruptly, her tears stopped flowing, her eyes turned from agony, to a terrible coldness. Even before she reached out and wrenched the cloth from his grip, his motions froze at the sight of her transformation.

She threw the cloth at him. A pathetic attempt to show her disdain for him, but it made her point. The cloth hid his chest and fell to the ground. He wasted no time retrieving it and standing, though his motions were calm and well measured. He settled back down before the fire. She moved onto her back on the pelt, staring up at the sky with aching, tired eyes.

Her eyes opened when he spoke. The sun had set. The fire was burning. He had furs spread out. She smelled food. Her stomach growled violently and her head ached more severely. She sat up, more than a little disoriented, and tried to fight through the grog. She could not even remember falling asleep, and for far too long, she wondered if she had fallen asleep by the river before returning to Pauwau's hut.

The Indian came toward her, wrapped warmly in a pelt of his own, and presented her with a tiny bowl of hot meat. She took it from him wordlessly and raised the meat to her mouth. Her eyes were critical and pinned on him as he moved away from her once again. He did nothing to return her gaze. She bit into the meat, ripping off a bite with the jerk of her head. She took to observing him as she ate. He ate slowly, staring off into the forest with grim thoughtfulness. Hair was beginning to grow on his scalp and face. A dark shadow on his tan skin. She watched him as he ate, observing the strange features of his face, the earrings in his ear, the color of his skin in the fire light.

She was torn in her hatred as she looked at him. She saw him with a knife to her boy's vulnerable, fleshly throat. She saw images in her head that she didn't even know were real or not. But she saw him standing there, with a knife to her boy's throat. She also knew that he would have spared him. He would have spared her.

A shiver tore through her. It was dusk out. He turned his head to look at her. He said something and motioned to the fire. She would have ignored him, but the temperature was dropping. She moved over to the fur, scooting closer to the fire. She wrapped the pelt more tightly around herself, fighting the weight of her eye lids.

She was startled awake by large hands on her shoulders, gently catching her as she swayed. She began to fight, but upon realizing where she was, she let him lower her down to the fur. She pulled the pelt underneath her chin and sniffled. He cheeks were wet. She closed her eyes and without the tea to drink before sleep, nightmares plagued her dreams.

* * *

They walked most of the next morning. He stopped them just past midday. He had walked a ways ahead of her, though he was always in sight. Three she had to stop, leaning against a tree to catch her breath and give her aching muscles a much needed rest. She wouldn't move on until he doubled back to collect her. He would always look up at the sun, a somewhat pained look on his face. He would then look back to her and gently pull her arms from the tree. It was the third time she stopped to rest that he decided they could stop for the day. She lowered herself down on shaky arms. She fought the urge to cry. Her body still hurt so badly. Her face was sore. He looked around, found a spot, and came to collect her. He picked her up with ease. Her protest was half-hearted. He lowered her down on a pelt and set about setting up a camp. She was relieved when it became clear they would travel no more the rest of the day. She did not think the ache in her head would allow it.

He wandered off and she held her hands up, palms down, to examine her hands. The linen wrapped around her fingers was stained brown. The tips of her fingers throbbed. A breath escaped her with a rush as she picked at one of the wraps. A painful grimace came to her face. She peeled the linen away, a tightening of her grimace taking hold, warping her features. The linen peeled away, but not without protest. It clung to the weeping skin, wishing to remain one with her mangled finger.

She was started when the Indian crouched down before her, a bowl in his hands. He placed the bowl beside them and dipped his own finger into it. Once done, he took her hand. She looked to him suspiciously, but did not stop him as he slowly peeled away the rest of the fabric. None of her fingernails looked healthy. Some were completely missing. Those that were not missing, were broken. The skin was pink and raw, beads of blood bubbling up from beneath the skin.

He took her right hand, the one he had unwrapped, and submerged her fingers in the bowl of water. She sucked in a breath as he did and he looked up. His dark eyes were quizzical, but they were far from angry or aggressive. They were round for a savage, and widely set. He settled the bowl on the ground and left her hand submerged. He rummaged through his things before he returned, gently removing her hand from the bowl of water. He rested the hand on her knee and began to unwrap the other hand.

Lawrence had loved her hands. He loved to kiss her fingers and press her palm to his cheek when he returned from the fields or as they lay in bed at night. He would tell her how soft and dainty they were. A lady's hands, he would tell her. A real lady. Sometimes, he would ask her if she were really the daughter of an earl or a duke, run away to the new world to start a new life. No one would think such things now.

He put her other hand in the bowl and began wrapping her right hand with fresh linen. It stung once again, but once her hands were re-wrapped and settled, her fingers no longer ached s badly. He moved away again and this time, he settled himself before the fire.

She observed him for some time. It was a long time until night would fall. He sharpened a blade and she could not help but wonder where Lawrence was. She wished he could have had their boy's body to bury. She should have asked him to bring him back for Lawrence.

 _Why my family?_ She wondered as she watched the blade. _Why my son?_

 _They're animals,_ a voice whispered in her ear. She laid herself down on the pelt and looked up at the sky. The sun was beginning to set by now. The day was getting colder. She curled into a ball, better pulling the pelt around her. She struggled to find sleep, despite how tired she was. Eventually she fell asleep, the sound of her son's laughter in her ears, the feel of her husband's hand in her hair, and somewhere in the back of her subconscious, she felt the weight of another pelt draped over her softly shivering body.

* * *

It took them nearly all day to arrive at the village. She wanted to stop a little after midday, but she refused to ask, and he seemed anxious to get to their destination. When they arrived at the tall walls she paused. She didn't want to go inside. She only stood and stared. Her rescuer seemed to notice her hesitation and paused to wait for her. He let her take her time. She stared at the walls and listened to the sounds from within. Laughing, singing, shouts. It shouted like Martin's Hundred during the summer. She bit her bottom lip and pushed onward. She walked beside him as they rounded the side of gate and stepped inside.

At first, no one turned their way. When eyes did find them, they went to her companion. They were about fifty feet into the village when the first person found her.

"Maskaanna!" a young man cried in excitement. A few more turned their head and came forward. She stepped closer to her Indian, fear seizing her violently. He held up a hand and spoke. His voice was forceful and commanded respect. The small group that was coming toward them slowly faded away obediently. She was grateful, but it did little to ease her fear. She followed him to a large hut and they were admitted inside by two partially dressed young man.

Her Indian pulled a heavy pelt to the side for her to enter. She stepped inside and stared blankly around the room. It was a large room, smoky, filled with people on either side, large pots of food cooking in the middle. At the end sat an Indian surrounded by a number of women, laughing with on, plopping a bit of food into his mouth. He looked over to her, as they all did, and his smile froze, but it got no more aggressive. His lips parted and he looked to her Indian.

They spoke and she was brought forward. She said nothing, swallowing thickly. She felt suddenly calm, amazingly calm. If she died, she would see William again.

The other Indian stepped foreward, a crown of feathers upon his head. He stopped before her, a smile on his lips. He spoke to her. She stared back blankly. He spoke again and laughed. She remained there, staring at him silently. She flinched when he reached up and he hesitated. He smiled and gently touched the bruises on her skin. How he could smile as he looked at her, she had no idea. He stood bad, eyes narrowing. Slowly, he reached up, removed a necklace from around his neck. She did nothing as he draped it over his shoulder. He continued to speak to her. This time it was her turn to narrow her eyes.

He and her Indian spoke together a few more moments before he the savage leader raised a hand and motioned for them to leave. Her Indian turned to leave. Alice waited, feeling the weight of the necklace around her neck. She watched the Indian King return to his chair throne.

"Maskaanna."

It was her rescuer that said it. She knew it meant her. She took the necklace from her neck very slowly. A murmur came out from the crowed. The Indian King's eyes seemed to glow as she stepped toward him, his lips curving upward slowly. She crouched down, laying out the necklace carefully with her bandaged fingers at the end of his bare feet. She straightened, examined him to see if she would be met with anger. Instead, she was met with amusement. She turned and walked toward her Indian. They exited the hut and she was lead down through the village. She kept her head down, hoping to avoid any attention, but it seemed to be the presence of the Indian before her that kept them at bay.

They stopped outside a hut not far from the larger lodge. A young woman was outside. She looked younger than Alice, but she would not have been much younger than Sarah. She looked up from a piece of clothing. A smile spread across her face, eyes widening. She had a kind, young face, long black hair, and a round face. She sat up and called out happily. She ran toward her captor, wrapping her arms around her neck happily. Another woman came out of the hut. She had a stunning beauty about her, for one of her color, but looked cold. Her eyes were hard and her face stone as she stepped from the hut.

The man that followed had to hunch down to step from the door of the hut. Her lips parted as she saw him and she stepped behind her rescuer. The man stepped forth, looking as frightening as any savage she had ever seen. His head was shaved, hair at the back of his hair roached. His eyes were dark and frightful. Nose large, cheekbones high, nose pierced. He was tall, looming. She stood closer to her rescuer.

The frightening man found her immediately. His eyes pinned her to the spot, dark, grim, and penetrating. Her heart pounded violently in her chest. He walked toward her, stopping just a few feet away. Her rescuer spoke, drawing the other's attention, but very soon, his dark eyes were on her once more. The two conversed a few moments and it became quite clear to her they were brothers. The resemblance was almost shocking. The frightening savage spoke, jerking his head to the hut and the younger of the two women came forward. She smiled at Alice, taking her by the arm gently and trying to lead her into the hut.

Alice refused to be moved. She looked to her companion, a furrow on her brow. He looked to her, said something, and motioned toward the hut with a jab of his chin. The young girl smiled, said something, and tugged gently. Alice's lips parted slightly. She kept her gaze on the man that had rescued her, that had tried to spare her son. He and the new man began to walk away. She got one last glimpse of them as she was tugged into the hut. She was pushed down onto a fur. Her vision went slightly blurry, she closed her eyes, and tried to keep consciousness.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO BACK A FEW CHAPTERS - I reformatted this, put a few chapters together and changed a few things. There is probably a lot of material here you have not yet read!

VII

Megedagik watched her from across the fire, dark eyes roving over her discolored face, pausing to watch her slender fingers twist through the wet locks that hung over her shoulder, twisting them carefully into a neat braid. Her eyes were far from her current location, glazed over, but dry. She was not malicious in her curtness with Chilaili, though his young wife looked as though she had been thoroughly scolded when the Maskaanna took the bowl from her hands without a word and chewed slowly on the tough meat. Chilaili looked to him and he shook his head slowly.

Aiyana was gone from the hut. Once he had returned from his conversation with Kesegowase and Powhatan, she had told him exactly what he thought of his lies. He tried very calmly to tell her that they were not lies, that he had no way of knowing her age under the puffy, bloody swell of her battered face, nor that she was, despite his previous assertions, an aesthetically pleasing view to the eye, regardless of her pale skin and silky hair. Burnt honey. Her skin was still peppered with purple, black and blue. A cut on her lip. A necklace of red around her neck. Her eyes, the color of amber, were still somewhat bloodshot, but not at all the same violent, bloody red they had been just a week or so before.

None of his protests made a different and he refused to raise his voice in his own defense. He let her storm away, assured she would return before long. Chilaili was more than helpful and when he informed her that he would be trusting her to care for their new guest, she was more than receptive. She cleaned her, gave her a new dress, saw her fed, and tried to be as welcoming as possible. She smiled at her, spoke kindly, tried to engage, but the Maskaanna was not as receptive as sweet-hearted Chilaili. There was very little in her eyes. Nothing but pain and agony. Chilaili had no experience with death. Not as he and the Maskaanna had. It would be impossible for her to truly understand.

"Maskaanna?" Chilaili asked, holding up a little jar of oil for her hair. Maskaanna looked at her, eyes looking to the jar, lazily figured out what it might be, and then shook her head. Chilaili looked to him and he shook his head slowly. Chilaili moved away without another word to her.

The Maskaanna stared into the flames of the fire, and once her braid was tied, she pulled his bear pelt tightly around her shoulders, the one he had wrapped her with before leaving her in his brother's possession. She wrapped herself in it as if it might shield her from any danger her strange new surroundings might afford her. He remembered the day they brought down the two mighty beasts. Worthy, beautiful animals they had vanquished on their journey west together. Twelve long months in the wilderness, away from their homes and families, looking for some way to ease the pain of their horrific loss. Those pelts had seen them well through the blistering cold of the winter. It warmed his heart to see it might provide her comfort now.

"Chilaili, move away from her. Let her rest."

"But –"

"Chilaili," he said curtly. She nodded and moved over to the other side of the fire on her knees. She scooted down beside him and reached into the food bowl, taking out a little bite to eat.

"I did not believe you when you said their skin was so pale," she mused softly, as if she thought the Maskaanna might know their words. "But she is not ugly, as you said."

"I never said she was repulsive, I said she displeasing to the eye," he answered.

"Aiyana does not think so," Chilaili muttered.

"Hush, wife," he snapped. Maskaanna looked up at the sound of his voice. Her eyes were large and alert. He could see the readiness to fight shining within and was struck with awe at her resolve. His face remained void of his inner feelings and he looked to Chilaili. "Forgive me, I've much on my mind."

"Pajackok –"

"Matchitehlew," he corrected her curtly. "He will be called nothing else in my presence." He turned to look at her. "He murdered an innocent child. A little boy. In front of his mother."

"So did you," Chilaili answered softly. He looked to her, brow creasing.

"That is different," he told her, voice low, softly, voice a warning that should she speak on that further, something he told her in confidence, she would receive a bruise to her face to match the Maskaanna's. She knew this and looked to the fire, not speaking another word on the matter.

Megedagik looked to the flames, wondering if the sun had set, and wondering if Aiyana would be spending the night with Etlelooaat. He felt a violent rush of jealously rush through his limbs but he kept it at bay. He looked across the flames to the Maskaanna. Her eyes threatened to close but she fought against it, swaying slightly. She pulled the pelt around her once again, holding up her chin with a fist propped against her bent knees hidden beneath the thick black fur.

"Put her to sleep," he finally said. She turned her head to look at him.

"What?"

"She's tired. Show her where to sleep."

"Where is she to sleep?" she asked.

"Where she is is fine," he answered. "Speak kindly. The girl is frightened."

Chilaili crossed over, once more on her knees. The Maskaanna looked over suspiciously, but when Chilaili gently placed her hand on the furs behind her, speaking very softly. The Maskaanna looked to her hand. Slowly her head turned, eyes finding him and looking to him suspiciously. He looked back, unwilling to lower his gaze. How could she feel safe, if she did not think he was man enough to protect her? She looked to Chilaili again. The girl smiled kindly, but not so widely that it might appear insensitive.

Finally, the girl lowered herself down to her pelt, face toward them, eyes on him. Her look was neither excessively aggressive, nor suspicious, but they lingered on him critically. He allowed himself to look away, but when he took his eyes from the fire sometime later, he found her still awake, watching him silently. Her lack of distrust surprised him only because of the trust she had apparently shown his brother. The tea, no doubt, from Pauwau, had contributed to her more pliable state.

"She looks feral," Aiyana said as she stepped back into the longhouse. He kept his gaze on the Maskaanna. Her eyes were on Aiyana, but only briefly. She looked back to him, wrapping herself tightly in his bear pelt, nuzzling it beneath her chin.

"She is frightened," he finally responded. Chilaili handed up a cup of tea and he accepted it with a soft thanks. Aiyana sat beside him. Chilaili poured another little cup for her. Aiyana thanked her.

"Even a frightened squirrel poses a danger," Aiyana pointed out. "Keep her here and we'll have our throats slit in our sleep."

"Have you no compassion?" he asked her.

"I've compassion," Aiyana replied. "I also have a great desire to live through the night. I know what I would do if my child was bludgeoned to death before my eyes. It is not contempt that drives me, but the bonds of motherhood."

"What would you have me do?"

"Bind her at least," Aiyana said. "Look at her," she urged softly. Megedagik looked to her again. She continued to stare at them from across the fire. She did not look, as Aiyana at described her, _feral_. He'd seen crazed and that was not what he saw now. It was simply fear and distrust. He had hoped the presence of two women might have calmed her more than it appeared to.

"Binding her would be an unnecessary humiliation. She was with the Corn Eaters and Kesegowase for some time. Never did she attempt to attack any of them."

"I will go back to my brother's," she replied curtly. He turned his head to look at her. "Until she leaves or you bind her, I will remain with my brother."

"Aiyana –"

"I mean it," she answered curtly. He sighed and looked over at Maskaanna.

"Chilaili," he finally spoke. His young wife looked up from her dinner. "Bind her wrists, be gentle."

Chilaili nodded, but it was clear as she crawled over with the rope that she was against this plan.

"Maskaanna?" Chilaili asked softly. She held up the rope. Maskaanna shook her head silently and scooted back, all the while wrapped snugly in the bear pelt. Chilaili looked back at him. He felt Aiyana beside him, scooting closer and placing her hand on top of his.

"We must, Chilaili," he said gently.

"Maskaanna," she said softly. The white women's eyes darted between them and Megedagik felt a glimmer of guilt root in his chest.

"Maskaanna," he tried to comfort her. She looked to him. "Only for a short time."

She shook her head again.

"Chilaili," he said.

Chilaili took the front of the bear pelt and tried to pull it downward. Maskaanna held the bear pelt more tightly and shied away.

"Maskaanna," he said again, this time more firmly. She looked to him, then to the rope in her hands. She presented her wrists from beneath the bear pelts. Chilaili was gentle as she found her, making sure that the sleeves of her dress covered the skin of her wrists. Once bound, Chilaili covered her with the pelt once more. Maskaanna settled back into the pelt, but now her eyes looked more alert than ever.

"She will never sleep now," he sighed. Aiyana smiled and put an arm around his shoulder, turning his face toward hers and placing a tender kiss to his lips.

"Your duty to your wives come first," she comforted gently. She kissed him again. He sighed and returned her kiss. Her hand moved across his scalp. "Chilaili the knife and the oil?"

Megedagik waited as they prepared and closed his eyes as Aiyana spread the oil along his scalp. She took the knife and very gently ran it along his scalp. It felt good, the slow scraping of the blade across his skin, Aiyana's small, gentle hands, cold against his hot scalp.

"Hmmm," she whispered, her voice soft, breath hot against his jaw. Her lips, soft and smooth, pressed to his ear, curved into a playful smile. "Lay with me tonight?"

He reached up to take hold of a hand that was wrapped around his shoulder, gently pressed to his chest. He tugged gently, squeezed her hand in his own, and turned his face toward her and murmured, "the girl."

"She had a child, she knows what it is," Aiyana said dismissively. Her coldness bothered him. Still, he turned and caught her lips in a gentle kiss.

"Wait till she sleeps," he murmured. Aiyana looked disappointed, but she smiled anyway, placing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling back to finish his scalp.

They sat by the fire, speaking softly as Chilaili and the Maskaanna went to sleep. Some hours went by before Aiyana reached out and touched his wrist, motioning to the two girls on the other side of the longhouse. Chilaili was fast asleep, lips parted, head tilted back, eyes darting about in the world of dreams. The Maskaanna had her back turned, wrapped almost entirely in the pelt. He could see nothing but the top of her head.

"Quietly," he whispered to her, a smile on his lips. He gently pushed her onto her back. Covering her with his body, his mouth went to hers. Her legs parted, soft thighs opening for him and he felt his blood run hot. Heat that only a good woman and the rush of battle could bring. He slid into her, lips parting against her ear, only to clamp down hard around her earlobe. She whimpered, but as she always did, she kept her moans of ecstasy quiet. Her nails dug into the back of his neck, her teeth nipped at his skin, and she thrust her hips up to meet his. It never failed to astound him, how different two women could be during such a carnal activity.

Chilaili was sweet and compliant. Aiyana passionate and violent. He was sure the Maskaanna would be more similar to Aiyana. Aiyana's legs clamped down around him. Her lips bit his. He bit her back. They breathed heavily, but both were sure to be quiet.

"Oh, yea," Aiyana whispered. Her hands moved over his scalp, tugging gently at the hair at the crown of his head. He growled softly, burying his face in her neck. He smothered her lips as they climaxed. She swallowed his moan. He hers.

He smiled at her as he lowered himself down to the furs, a light sheen of sweat coating his pulsing muscles. A large vein pulsed in his neck and forehead. Aiyana took his hand and put it on her belly. He held up his face in his hand, elbow pressed to the soft furs they rested on.

"Do you think a baby might come soon?" she asked softly. His eyes softened.

"If it is meant to be," he tried to comfort her. She smiled sadly.

"The shame it would bring," she whispered, eyes wet. "If I cannot bear children."

"Hush," he soothed. He ran the back of his knuckles along her cheek. "No more of that."

She smiled at him. He lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. He smiled at her another moment and then pressed another kiss to her lips.

"Good night, wife," he smiled.

"Good night," she replied. He reached a fur as she turned, offering her back to him. He covered them, pressing himself up against her, looping an arm around her waist. He pressed one last kiss to her cheek before lowering his head down to sleep.

* * *

The cry that ripped through her had him jumping out of sleep as though they were under attack. His hand was on his club before he realized the cries were coming from the Maskaanna. Chilaili was already near her, trying to catch her wailing wrists. The bear belt was tangled around her, keeping her from kicking her legs too wildly. Aiyana scooted back, away from her with wide eyes and Megedagik scrambled forward. He grabbed her wrists and held them down to her stomach, doing his best to silence her.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said, shaking her gently. She cried out, the same sound over and over, before her eyes finally popped open. Another screech of panic left her as she spotted him and she tried to flee once more. He held her down with ease and Chilaili spoke kindly. She quieted, but she panted, eyes wide, looking between them.

"Hush now," he said, reaching out and touching her cheek. She sucked a breath, but it was choppy, like she could not control her body.

"Chilaili, go get Talisa," he said. Chilaili nodded and scrambled from the longhouse. He slowly released her hands, keeping his own close in case she began to flail again. She kicked the pelt away. She was soaked with sweat, hair nearly an entire shade darker. He grabbed hold of her, untying her wrists. She scooted backward, her breathing still irregular. She was looking around, a mixture of fear, confusion, and agony on her face.

"Aiyana, some water," he said. He heard no movement and turned his head. "Aiyana."

She stayed there, staring at the Maskaanna.

"Aiyana!"

She looked to him in surprise before she moved over to grab the water jug.

"Maskaanna."

She looked at him as she pressed her hand to her forehead. She didn't say a word. Aiyana came closer, handing the bowl of water to Megedagik before scooting back to the far end of the longhouse. Megedagik scooted closer and the Maskaanna darted back. He paused, a flair of annoyance for Aiyana budding in his chest. A far less threatening presence than he, it should have been her to care for the Maskaanna at this time.

"Maskaanna," he said again. He put the bowl down on the fur and moved back. She hesitated, eyes on him specially. Finally, she reached for it and brought it to her lips. She drank deeply. Water dribbled down over her chin an onto her dress. By the time she finished the bowl, tossing it back toward him to refill, Chilaili had returned with Talisa.

"Start boiling the water, child," Talisa told Chilaili. Chilaili went to work immediately. Talisa knelt beside Megedagik and smiled at the Maskaanna. "Hello, sweet girl," she smiled. "Calm now. You're safe. Chilaili said dreams?"

"Yes, she woke up screaming."

"We are not built to witness such violent befall children," she said sadly, eyes on the Maskaanna."

"You should have killed her," Aiyana said softly in the back. Megedagik turned his head, a frown on his face. She was huddled in the corner, holding her knees to her chest. "She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't want to live. You should have just let her die."

Megedagik looked back at Maskaanna. She had her head down, brushing her sweaty strands back with trembling hands. She looked back up, eyes still wide, mouth open to suck in as much oxygen as she could. She seemed calmer now.

"The water, Talisa," Chilaili whispered, bringing it closer. Steam came up from the bowl and Talisa added some leaves to the water.

"I will leave some with you," Talisa told Megedagik. "She should have some every night before sleep."

"Thank you," he told her. "And thank you for coming so late."

"My sweet child she, she had nightmares. Terrible, terrible nightmares. I hate to see them in such pain."

Megedagik lowered his eyes. Talisa had been against the attack on the white villages. She had the ear of Powhatan. His father's half-sister, she had his ear on many issues. In this instance, she was met with a deaf ear.

"Come here, child," she said kindly, scooting closer. The Maskaanna's lips parted as she saw the steaming liquid. She reached for it greedily, not a single ounce of fear or apprehension in her gaze. "It is hot, child. Very hot," she cautioned. She prevented Maskaanna from scalding the inside of her mouth, but the young white woman was far from grateful. She took the cup away, now suspicious they might try and steal it away from her. She scooted back against the edge of the long house, but blew softly on the tea.

"Let her drink it all. She'll be asleep soon."

"Will she sleep through the night?" he asked.

"She will."

Talisa handed a small bag to Megedagik.

"One leaf, two will do no harm, but she will sleep or some time."

Megedagik nodded slowly, face severe.

"Thank you, Talisa," he said again. Talisa nodded and, with a soft pat to Chilaili's cheek and a nod to Aiyana, she left the hut. Maskaanna blew softly on the tea before chancing a sip. She looked up, eyes finding his. They did not look away as she raised the tea back to her mouth. He backed away and motioned to Chilaili to lie down.

"Go back to sleep," he told his wives. "I will remain awake until she goes to sleep."

"Like I could sleep now," Aiyana replied curtly.

"It will be difficult," Chilaili agreed, but she lowered herself back down to her furs.

"Silence," he snapped. He looked back to Aiyana. "What would you have me do?"

Aiyana glared at him, lips pinching together. He waited, refusing to look away. Finally, her gaze lowered and she laid back down on the furs. He turned his head back to the Maskaanna. She was finishing the tea. The steam did not seem to bother her. She just needed it finished. Once done she placed the cup by the fire. Her eyes found his again and she scooted closer to the discarded bear pelt. She pulled it back over her shoulder and laid down to the furs beneath her. Her eyes remained on his for some time. Slowly her eyelids grew heavy, fluttering closed and then open again, until finally, they grew too heavy. He waited for some time, but before too long he was certain she was asleep. He lowered himself down beside Aiyana and draped his arm back around her middle. She leaned into him.

"Good night," she murmured.

"Good night," he answered. Her eyes remained closed and once again, she fell back to sleep. Megedagik's eyes remained opened, looking across the Longhouse, and stared at the sleeping white woman well into the early morning.

* * *

Alice considered making a fuss when the young Indian girl put the stack of shirts beside her and placed the needle and thread into her hand. The last thing she wanted to do was to mend the clothing of her captors, but the girl seemed to be the kinder of the two women she was left with and she feared alienating her best chance at relative comfort. She had no desire to turn herself into a martyr. She came to understand, after a long back and forth, that the young woman's name was Chilaili.

The other woman, the one with the smooth skin the piercing eyes, long black hair, and high cheekbones, seemed as displeased to have Alice with them as she was to be there. Regardless of their mutual dislike for each other, Alice decided it would be best to at least make the younger girl an ally. She examined the needle, and though she was unused to working with such material, she found it not much different from mending her own family's clothing.

There was a brief argument between the two women she now shared a home with. Alice looked up briefly, but not knowing the language, she decided it would be wisest not to work herself up with worry. Chilaili came off triumphant, and the elder, the more beautiful, stormed off with a huff and a cry that Alice could only discern as an insult or curse. The younger girl said something to her, a kind smile on her face, but Alice replied with a blank gaze.

She looked back to her chores and carefully continued to mend the clothing. It was just past mid-morning when her new guardian and her rescuer returned to their hut, a string of birds hung by their sides. Both seemed in a fine mood, and as the two men handed their kill to the young Indian girl, they spoke briefly. Her guardian motioned to her, but the girl opened her to mouth to speak, he changed his mind and waved a hand. He sat down across from Alice and her rescuer joined him. Both were resting on furs Chilaili had laid.

"Maskaanna," he said, holding out a hand to her. She did not move. She simply blinked at him. He brought his hand back to touch his chest. "Megedagik."

She said nothing once again. She did not care enough to even provide a nod. He swung his hand over to motion to her rescuer.

"Kesegowase."

She nodded at him. Megedagik's brow furrowed some and he shifted, but he did not seem angry or aggressive. Chilaili came out and provided each man with a small cup of tea. Smiling kindly at them as she did. Megedagik spoke to her and soon Chilaili was beside Alice, teaching her how to prepare a bird. Alice was slightly offended, a sliver of annoyance slicing its way through her macerated heart and imbedding like a splinter. Alice reached for one of the birds as the young girl continued her explanation and began yanking at the feathers with more skill than the young girl showed in her demonstration.

She had the bird plucked in little time at all. When she finished, Chilaili took the bird from her and replaced it with another. It was clear that she would be trusted with a knife. She plucked at the birds as the three conversed. She focused on her work, hearing very little of their words except for the deep rumbling of the two men's voices. She was broken out of her imaginings when Chilaili placed a hand to her arm. She put the cups of the tea into her hands and motioned for her to follow.

Chilaili showed her how to prepare the tea, showed her where the tea was stored, and conveyed though motions easy enough to understand what was never to be touched. One cup was handed to Alice and they left the Longhouse. Alice handed hers to Kesegowase. Chilaili handed hers to Megedagik. Both resumed their tasks without another word.

"Ah, Maskaanna!" someone called and she looked up. The newcomer was not alone, and she turned her purple face up to them with aching eyes. They were young men, fighting age, and all smiled with excitement as they sat down beside Megedagik and Kesegowase, patting their shoulders and speaking happily. Smiles were stretched across their faces and one young man laid down a flute on the furs before her. Another added a necklace. Just a moment or so later the third placed a little bundle of fox furs. She watched them as they stood, saying something further to her as they left them.

She reached out to touch the items before her. She knew that Megedagik and Kesegowase were speaking, but she could not see if they were speaking to her and she did not much care to check. She touched the fox furs, the flute, the necklace. Her eyes fluttered closed as her head began to ache. Slowly, her fingers curled into loosely bound fists.

"Maskaanna?" Kesegowase asked. She knew without having to look. His voice was gravelly. Her eyes opened and she looked around at them. Chilaili, Megedagik, Kesegowase. Once more she felt the crushing weight of her loss press down on her shoulders. Her hands pressed down to the furs beneath her and she slowly pushed herself to her feet. She said nothing as she went back into the hut. Once inside, she crawled over to her to her sleeping spot and pulled the bear pelt up to engulf her entirely. She had no more tears to cry, and mercifully, sleep found her quickly.

* * *

The next day she had the same chores. She would mend clothing with Chilaili until Megedagik and Kesegowase returned with their hunt. This time, when newcomers came bringing gifts, Megedagik did away with them, a wave of the hand and a bellow and no more came. She was grateful for it, and this time she did not need to go and sleep the day away. The other woman, Aiyana, did not seem as pleased with the new schedule as Megedagik and Chilaili did. For whatever reason, when she arrived back in mid-afternoon to find her preparing food and fetching water with Chilaili, it started a rather heated row between the two women. Megedagik appeared out of seemingly nowhere to silence them, and Aiyana stormed off angrily.

They prepared lunch and after Megedagik and Kesegowase ate from the communal bowl. Chilaili, like the others, ate by sticking a large stick into the bowl and taking out bits of meat. There was no set eating time. No plates or specific place to eat. You ate, it appeared, when you were hungry. But about midafternoon she and Chilaili carried the remains to the village center. There a number of cooking bowls were placed over fire, the remains of those previously eaten lunches, were set up. The elderly primarily stood around it, those of young years were not of the same lean, heavily muscled men that seemed to be the norm. The rest were children or those coming in from the fields, covered in dirt.

She paused as she looked at one of the women putting up a new pot. She was dressed in deer skins, dress slightly dirty, but it was her hair that had Alice freezing in place. Chilaili paused when she realized Alice was not following. She spoke, but Alice stared at the woman. Her skin was white. Her hair a light brown. Chilaili looked in her direction and then came back to her. She took her arm and guided her toward the pots. By the time she arrived, the white woman was gone.

She dumped her pot into the one Chilaili directed her to and then followed her back to their longhouse. She kept an eye out for the white woman, but as she was lead back into the Longhouse, the sun setting and the air turning cool, she caught no sight of her. Aiyana was there, finishing the pot that was currently cooking their dinner. Megedagik was gone and Kesegowase had not returned after leaving just past mid-morning.

She moved to her location and laid down, closing her eyes and trying to let sleep ease the pangs that would ricocheting of her skull. She heard Aiyana begin to speak and ignored her. It was not until her voice grew louder and she felt her body being shaken that she realized she was yelling at her. Her eyes popped open and she shoved Aiyana off her. She sat up and glared, but Aiyana was in no mood for a staring match. She yelled at her again and Alice huffed and turned around to sleep. A screech erupted from her lips when she felt her hair pulled violently. Chilaili cried out and went running from the hut. Alice spun around and caught Aiyana by the hair, yanking as hard as she could. She had too much of a fistful to rip any hair from head. They wrestled for some time, and even though Alice remained on her back, Aiyana atop her, Alice felt she got the better of the scrap. It was Aiyana, after all, that continued to scream and wail.

It was not until she was yanked off her by Megedagik that Aiyana stopped her wailing and Alice released her hair. She scooted back, eyes glimmering with Triumph. Her tongue darted along her lower lip, the almost completely healed flesh ripped open once again. She didn't even feel the pain. Megedagik towered over Aiyana, head nearly scraping the top of the hut. Aiyana protested but it did no good. Even as she scrambled to her feet he seemed unmoved. She ran from the hut in tears. Megedagik turned his head to look at her. He stared at her a moment, a dark look on his face. He waited only a moment and then disappeared, chasing after Aiyana.

Chilaili rushed in once they left, dropping to her knees by Alice's side. She touched her cheek, gingerly pressed her thumb to Alice's lip. Alice panted, heart pounding, and reached up to press her hand over Chiliali's. She spoke to her a few moments before moving away and going through one of the baskets on the far side of the room. Before She let Chilaili wipe clean her oozing lip, she dragged her tongue along the aching flesh, making sure to get one more taste of blood.

Aiyana was not in the hut that night. When Alice and Chilaili finished dinner, Megedagik came back in, settling himself down in his usually place, grim faced and stern. He spoke only a few words to Chilaili before closing his eyes and lifting his chin. When Alice moved over to him, holding out the steaming cup of tea, his eyes remaining closed. She waited, and when he did not open his eyes she lowered her hands to his lap, considering him closely.

The piece of wood was missing from his nose. She could see the hole in his nose. The earrings remained in his ears. His scalp was freshly shaved. His face resembled that of his brother's, but while Kesegowase's face below his nose seemed almost flat, his lips were more pronounced.

"Megedagik," Chilaili finally said. His eyes opened and Alice looked to Chilaili. "Megedagik," she said again, as if she thought she had forgotten his name.

Alice looked to him. His dark eyes pinned to her. She held up the tea, but she refused to say his name. Speaking them… it was somehow a sign of forgiveness. She wasn't ready for that yet, even if his brother had saved her from that terrible man. Even if he had wished to spare her little boy.

His gaze remained on her. Dark and searching, looking for something but she had no idea what it could have been he was looking for. She refused to look away, refused to speak. But the longer her eyes stayed on his, the darker his seemed, the more intense. It chipped away at her remaining strength and quite against her conscious will her eyes flickered and soon her gaze was turned toward the furs.

His hand was warm when it pressed gently to her chin. She looked up, chancing another look into those terrible, dark eyes. They struck her as familiar. She felt almost comforted by them, but she thought very little on it. His thumb moved, gingerly moving along her lower lip, feeling the freshly opened slice. She still refused to speak. Slowly his hand moved, the warmth of his fingers leaving scorch marks in their wake. She feared what she saw in those eyes, remembered that as kind as they may be, these people were more animal than man.

He dropped his hand and plucked the cup of tea from hers. He continued to look at her as he raised the cup to his lips. She waited, caught in his gaze. She felt that if she looked away she would be left vulnerable. Like he might attack. He took a sip of the tea, tasted it a moment, and then lowered his hand down to rest on his knee. His bracelets rattled. He gave a small nod and then words of praise. He looked away as Chilaili handed him a bowl.

She scooted back into her corner, taking hold of her bear pelt and wrapping it tightly around her. She accepted the bowl from Chilaili, and as she raised the bite of meat to her lips, she watched him, face grim, eyes dark, glaring into the flames with frightful concentration.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am considering removing my stories from this site. There just doesn't seem to be a huge interest here. If i do, I will be sure to let you know when you will be able to find it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

VIII

The sky was a kind of orange, but as Alice stared out at the horizon, she saw blood. She breathed in deeply through her nose, trying to enjoy the crisp morning air. It smelled like spring. Even the chill in the air could not convince her that spring would stay away much longer. It was always her favorite time of year. The time of year when everything came to life. But now all she could think of as death. Chilaili said nothing as Alice stared out down toward the little valley. She was sure it was the James down below. She could see boats on it. Fishermen. From a different village, Chilaili had indicated through a marathon of gesturing.

"Maskaanna," Chilaili finally said softly. The girl did not like to disturb her when she was thinking, nor did she appear particularly comfortable giving her orders. Had Alice the inclination or the energy, she might have taken advantage of the clear intimidation the girl experienced when in her presence. Though only a few years her junior, for some reason, the girl seemed quite deferential to her. It was a far cry from the scorn-worthy superiority the other showed her. Alice took in another deep breath, closing her eyes. She let herself go from that place and put herself some years ago, in the summer, sun hot, water trickling, little baby William giggling as he ran naked along the shore line of the James, splashing away happily. She turned away from the bloody sky and a stab of pain tore through her heart.

Alice moved along the trail with Chilaili. She listened as the girl spoke, but she understood very little. Important phrases she was beginning to recognize, but she was not entirely sure of their direct translation. She knew when she was being told to fetch water or make tea. She even knew the difference between the two types of tea Megedagik was most partial to. She knew Aiyana did not like her, and she knew Megedagik would shield her from her abuse. It made Alice oddly satisfied to see the man come to her defense when Aiyana's words were too curt or her nudge of direction was too forceful.

Alice crouched down to examine the leaf Chilaili was showing her. The girl plucked it gingery with her delicate fingers and placed it into their basket. Alice enjoyed going with Chilaili to collect herbs. They always left just as the sun rose and returned before mid-morning. The past week since she arrived at her new home, they had gone every morning. It helped clear her head, provided her with some limited peace of mind. Savages came daily to present her with gifts. Apologies she had surmised. As uncivilized as they might be, they did not appear to be the monsters she first saw them as. After all, Kesegowase had decided to spare her boy. He had tried to let them go.

She sighed deeply, drawing Chilaili's gaze. She looked almost excited, as if she thought Alice was going to speak, but Alice only stared back. Alice spent most of her days wondering if anyone would come looking for her. If they would know where to look, or if they would even try to negotiate with the savages to bring her home. She did not know if the savages would even listen. Kesegowase had chosen not to let her remain with her people, and she still, though only a week had passed, had a strong fear every time he returned to their longhouse with Megedagik that it would be the day he took her with him and forced her to lie with him. Yet, to her confusion and relief, he had her remain under Megedagik's roof. In truth, though she had no desire to lie with him, she would have preferred his guardianship to that of Megedagik's, if only so she could escape the hateful gaze of his pretty young wife.

Alice did not speak, and instead rose. Her body still ached on long journeys, and even though they were within a mile from the village walls, her head was beginning to throb again. The headaches were lessening. Her eyes hurt less and when she looked at herself as best she could in the water, her bruises were almost entirely faded. A type of yellow hue remained, the necklace of purple around her throat was now a dull gray. One of the savages that had come presenting gifts had marveled at the bruises, raising his hand to press his own fingertips to the imprints the other had left behind. She had shied away, returning to the solitude of the longhouse.

They walked back toward the village. Alice liked returning before too many people were out. Her days were spent either in the longhouse or just outside of it, preparing meals, mending shirts, or decorating clothing or jewelry with Chilaili. Aiyana was gone most of the day, and returned just past mid-afternoon. From what Alice had been able to ascertain from simple observation, theirs was a family of status within the village. Since her first few days of captivity, she had not seen another sign of the white woman she had seen at the center of the village.

Her nightmares were lessening, but she attributed that to the tea Chilaili made her every night before bed. She feared the day they might suggest she sleep through the night without it. Once, as she took a nap, something Aiyana disliked immensely, she saw her little boy's skull being shattered so vividly, that when Chilaili shook her awake, she had rolled over and heaved the contents of her stomach into the coals of the fire. Even when there was nothing else to give, she remained their retching as Chilaili gently stroked her hair back away from her face.

As they returned to the longhouse, Megedagik settled himself on a pelt outside, leaning against the hut, and sucked thoughtfully on his pipe. He looked over to them as they approached, dark eyes grim and difficult to read. He very rarely smiled. Even when speaking to Aiyana, and the two seemed very close, his lips did not turn upward. Often times she would catch him looking at her, but it was not lust or anything carnal she saw in his gaze. Mere curiosity perhaps. And he was never embarrassed when she caught him looking. She never won a staring contest, and she often tried to hold his gaze when he refused to look away. If she had the desire to speak she would have told him it was rude to stare, but he would not understand her anyway.

He spoke, and though his eyes were on her, she knew he was speaking to Chilaili. Alice kept to her usual routine upon returning. She brought the herbs inside and put them in their perspective jars. She set about making tea, her only deviation from the norm being that she made a cup for Megedagik as well as she and Chilaili. She handed Megedagik his tea and he took the cup, still speaking to Chilaili. Chilaili took hers, but was soon hurrying off down the way. She preferred not to call them roads. Alice sipped her tea and then put it off to the side. She glanced at Megedagik, but he was looking straight ahead, chin lifted, sucking on his pipe. She had never once been alone with him. It made her uncomfortable. Luckily, she need not worry about any sort of awkward silence.

"Maskaanna," he finally said and she looked up with a start. His voice was deep and abrupt and she sucked in a breath of surprise as she turned her gaze toward him. He was still looking ahead, but his hand moved from his mouth and he pointed to a rabbit on the fur. She had to move forward, using a hand on the ground to keep her up, and grabbed the rabbit's ears. Slowly she pulled it back toward her and waited. He lowered his tea to the ground and retrieved a knife from his side. He held it out to her, his hands on the blade. She leaned forward slowly, eyes wary, as if she were approaching a rabid animal. She took the knife from him and settled back into her spot. He brought the pipe back to his lips and began to suck on it again.

When Lawrence hunted, it was always he that had harvested the meat, though it appeared it was the woman's job among these savages. Chilaili had showed her as she prepared much of the game animals that had been brought back since her arrival, but she had not yet been given a knife to try on her own. She bit her bottom lip and jabbed the knife into the animal. It drew Megedagik's attention. He spoke. No or stop. She was not sure which one, but it had the same affect.

He leaned over and flipped the animal, showing her where to start. They saved almost everything. Megedagik found uses. Just the other day he had fashioned a new pillow out of a fox he had caught. She skinned the animals as best she could, though it took more time than Megedagik was perhaps expecting. She laid down as the meat cooked, resting her eyes, but she was careful not to fall asleep. When the meat was ready, she brought him a little bowl. He did not eat a lot, but he ate often. She attributed his lean, muscular form to it.

She exited the longhouse and presented it to him. He reached up with his free hand and offered her the pipe with the other. She took it, refilled it with the tobacco he liked, and brought it back out. Once done, she sat back down in her spot and retrieved a shirt to mend. He said something and she paused to look at him. He was speaking to her, though he looked straight ahead. There was no one else around.

She waited for him to turn his head to explain but he fell silent again. She looked back down to the shirt. Throughout the day, others would bring their clothing to mend. They'd return for them, going through the pile and heading off from wherever they had come from. Usually they tried to engage her in conversation. Most of the time, she did not even look up from her work. Megedagik would speak, when he was present, and send them on his way. His current presence was abnormal, granted her week long sample was far from conclusive.

She realized he was watching her when she added another shirt to the pile. She looked at him, meeting his gaze and refusing to look away. He turned his face toward hers, face angled to her fully. She waited for him to give her a direction. He did not have his tea cup outstretched to her. His pipe was still pressed to his lips.

Eyes still on her, he lowered the pipe from his mouth. A ring of smoke escaped from his parted lips, expanding through the air. She held his gaze, but each moment that passed became more difficult. They continued to stare. How much time passed, Alice did not know, but it was broken when his eyes flickered upward and she heard Aiyana's angry voice.

Alice went back to mending the shirt and the two began to speak. Megedagik, even when they argued, was always calm. He sucked on his pipe as Aiyana continued to rant. Finally, he got up from his spot and began walking down the way. He stopped as he came to stand beside her. She looked up, prepared for another staring contest. He only held out his pipe. She reached up to take it from him, but he held fast. She waited, heart pounding in her throat and mouth going dry. Finally, he released the pipe. She yanked it back hard, unprepared for the release. Without another word he moved on with Aiyana.

She looked down at the pipe. The tobacco was mostly all used up. She pressed her thumb into the bowl, packing it down further. It was hot, though no longer burning. She raised it to her nose. It was good tobacco.

She looked over her shoulder in time to find him stepping inside a longhouse on the other side of the village center.

* * *

He looked toward his home, his two wives settled by the fire outside, his young ward on the far side. The children ran around happily, singing songs and laughing. It would have been quite a beautiful scene if the young white woman did not look so miserable, if the youngest of his wives was not in love with a ghost, and if his principal wife had a single care in the world for his children dancing far too close to the fire.

They had arrived in the morning. The celebration would occur in a few days and Megedagik had wanted to spend time with his children. He understood the importance of a child being raised by their mother's family, yet it still bothered him not to have them with him. His daughter looked just like her mother. He took the time to miss his wife as he watched her. As much as he cared for Aiyana, he could never love another woman the way he had loved his Lemana.

He watched his son as he circled the fire, giggling madly as his daughter chased after him. She giggled happily, allowing her little brother to outrace her. His little feet scuffled around the dirt, arms flailing out about him to better balance himself.

Blood rushed to his face and his heart rate elevated. He looked to Aiyana to find her speaking to Sihu. Chilaili was on her way back inside the longhouse. He looked back to his children, blinking back his anger.

He watched his son's feet continue to scuffle along the ground. He was about to walk over and tell his children to move away from the fire, as well as scold his two wives for not keeping better watch. Before he could move, the little boy went stumbling forward, unable to control his body's momentum. A sharp gush of air rushed into Megedagik's lungs, but before the little boy was able to crash into the steaming pot cooking above the flickering flames, an arm wrapped around his chest and he was heaved into the air.

He took a moment to marvel at her reflexes, but realized as she seized a tiny wrist and raised it up to examine that his hand had caught the end of the pot. Kesegowase fell silent as he began marching back toward the fire to survey the damage his wives' incompetence had done to his little boy.

Ahote's little face crumpled, a wail about to escape his lips. He was juggled gently in her arms and he saw, rather than heard, her speak. Ahote's big brown eyes looked on her in wonder, the wail freezing in his throat. She took his burnt little fingers and pressed them to her lips. A rapid succession of kisses were placed to his finger tips. Her voice was soft and kind as she spoke to him, words he could not possibly fathom, but words that calmed him greatly.

A smile came to his lips and soon he was choking back a giggle. His tongue stuck out from between his teeth. Megedagik stopped moving. Slowly, she lowered the little boy to the ground, white hands taking gentle hold of his arms. She made sure he was planted firmly on the ground before releasing him. The little boy watched the white woman curiously as she seized a small piece of firewood and draw a circle around the fire.

She paused when she got closer to Aiyana, waiting for his chief wife to move her feet so she could continue her circle. Aiyana refused. There was a moment of pause. The Maskaanna straightened and stared down at her. Aiyana stared back, a cold smile coming to her lips. The white woman glared down at her, and just when it looked like she was going raise the piece of wood and strike her, she pressed the wood into the dirt and continued on her way.

The wood bumped into Aiyana. Her hand darted out and smacked the side of the Maskaanna's face. The Maskaanna jerked back. Her arm with the wood flexed. She raised it up behind her, elbow bent, pure instinct, but as Aiyana flinched, bringing up her hands to defend herself, the Maskaanna glanced back to his children. They watched, looking curiously at the strange woman, and the piece of wood was lowered back to the ground. She and Aiyana stared at each other for a few moments, Aiyana's fear turning to anger. Finally, the Maskaanna looked away and went back to her work. She continued her circle of the fire. Once finished, she tossed the wood back into the wood pile.

She crouched down by his children, motioning to the circle she had drawn. She stopped speaking when she saw him approach and straightened. She stepped back, away from his children, and he turned his gaze to Aiyana.

"If you raise another hand to her, I'll give you a thrashing myself," he informed her.

"I –"

"Silence."

"Papa!" the little boy cried happily and ran toward him. Megedagik leaned down and scooped the little body up with firm grips beneath his armpits. He raised him up to eye level and smiled at the boy. He was growing quite big.

"Ahote," he greeted. The little boy held up his hand to show him his red little finger tips. "A mighty wound!" he congratulated him. He giggled happily and lowered him down to the ground. He looked for the Maskaanna as his little girl ran to him, but she had already moved back to her spot by the fire.

"Mansi," he greeted again, picking up the girl as he had his son. She smiled brightly at him, stretching out her arms to wrap them around his neck. He hugged her and then lowered her to the ground. He looked over to Maskaanna. She was looking at Ahote, a deep sadness rooted in her eyes. She looked back down to the shirt in her hands. She picked at it absentmindedly.

She paused, raised a hand to her mouth, and stared at the ground. A moment or so passed and she moved up to her feet.

"Ahote," he said. The little boy turned, confused. He was right behind the Maskaanna as she went back into the longhouse. "Come sit by the fire. Tell me of your fishing."

The boy's face lit up and he ran toward him. He stopped suddenly, eyes widening as he looked down to the circle she had drawn around the fire. Carefully, he walked around. Megedagik sat down and the boy crawled into his lap. "Mansi," he called. She settled down on her knees beside him, playing gently with his earrings.

The Maskaanna returned from the longhouse in time to eat. She sat at the fire in her usual spot, as silent as ever. Sihu and Aiyana chattered happily. Kesegowase spoke to Megedagik and Donehogawa, his own daughter cuddled in his lap.

"Maskaanna."

"Megedagik turned his face from Donehogawa. Kesegowase was holding out a pipe to her. She shook her head and went back to her meal. He scooted closer.

"It will help," he said, tapping his head. He held it out and she reached up with a pale, timid hand. He raised the pipe to her lips and sucked in. Immediately she was seized with a fit of coughs. Smoke came from her mouth and nose in plumes. Kesegowase smiled and took the pipe back.

Once she was able to breath she offered him a tiny smile. Megedagik looked back to his daughter. He raised up a piece of fish and put it between her lips. Mansi giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck again. His children had missed him, but not nearly as much as he had missed them. He patted her arm and listened to Donehogawa tell him of his son's improvements. He was a fine little fisherman. Rose early. Listened intently. Was polite and had an amazing amount of energy. But he had a propensity for clumsiness. Donehogawa thought it had more to do with his sudden growth spurt than anything intrinsic. He was large for a boy his age. He would take after his father, Megedagik thought proudly, rubbing the long locks of hair that came down to cover his eyes.

Ahote gnawed at his piece of meat, trying to yank it away from the bone. The meat was too tough and he clamored from Megedagik's lap. Megedagik paid no attention to him and continued his conversation with Donehogawa.

"He is more like Lemana every day," Donehogawa said reverently. Megedagik smiled at the sound of his late-wife's name. He lowered his head in remembrance and then looked to his boy. His daughter came back to him, offering him a cup of cooled-tea. Ahote moved to sit beside the Maskaanna, struggling to gnaw at the mess of meat he had taken from the fire, juices coming down over his hands and arms. She reached out silently, as she did everything, and took the meat from him with a look of disapproval. Lowering it to her bowl, she retrieved a knife from Kesegowase. Kesegowase looked in surprise as the knife was gently taken from his side, and she carefully cut into the large mass of animal flesh. She held up a smaller portion and he plopped it into his mouth. He chewed happily, looking at her as she continued her cutting. She held up the other but shook her head when he tried to seize it from her. He finished chewing, swallowed, and then opened his mouth to show her he was finished. Her lips curved upward as she gave it to him. It was the first sign of warmth he had seen from her since she arrived.

Maskaanna was a fine name for such a woman. A mother and a warrior.

Aiyana returned from the longhouse and handed Ahote a hot cup of tea with a tender pat to the cheek and a smile of her own. He took it in his little hands and lowered it down carefully, concentrating with wide eyes. He almost had it to his lips before Maskaanna reached out and seized it from him. She checked the temperature of the tea with a pinky and decided it was too hot. She put it down and when he reached for it with a pout, shot him such a look that even Megedagik hesitated before bringing his tea to his lips. Ahote pulled his hand back and finished chewing.

After a few more bites, she handed Ahote his tea. After she finished eating she collected her tools and made to return to the longhouse. He reached out and seized her wrist, guiding her back down to the furs before she could rise fully. His eyes never left Donehogawa. His hand lingered on her wrist. He caught Aiyana's eye and released her. He continued speaking to Donehogawa. He turned his head to look upon Maskaanna once more. He was disappointed to find her silently slipping back into the longhouse.

* * *

Pants of pleasure filled the dimly lit longhouse. Shadows flickered against the walls. He groaned, low in the back of his throat. She let out a cry of ecstasy. Her legs wrapped around him, forcing him more deeply inside of her. Sweat coated their bodies and his eyes squeezed shut. Her hands reached for him, running over his scalp before seizing his head and bringing it down to her mouth.

Their lips met and she moaned into his mouth. His teeth closed down on a lip. Her foot moved up his thigh. Her fingers dug deep into his skin. He pulled back closing his eyes. Another cry left her and she tried to pull him back. He growled and pulled back. He flipped her over and thrust back inside of her. Her head flew back with a smile. His mouth went to her ear, his hand on her neck.

His eyes squeezed shut and he ground his teeth together. She came with a cry, pulsing around him tightly, milking him of his seed. She fell into the furs and rolled over to face him. She ran her hands over his chest, bare and slick with sweat.

"That was wonderful," she breathed. His eyes flickered open and he looked down at her with a smile of his own. He leaned down and placed a kiss to her pulse. He licked the hot skin. She whispered in his ear, "again?"

A smirk came to his lips and he thrust himself inside of her again. Another cry left her lips and he got a firm grip of her long, dark locks. As her legs wrapped around him, back, eyes closed. He ground his teeth together and felt his entire body tighten. Another moan left her lips. His eyes moved up back, eyes closed. He ground his teeth together and felt his entire body tighten. He leaned down to place his lips to hers, but instead, he buried his face into the furs beside her, turning his gaze upward. Finding the white face in the darkness, cocooned warmly in his pelt and kept from the realm of consciousness by her nightly tea, he thrust into Aiyana, earning another breathy cry from her lips.

* * *

The little boy came wandering over shortly after Chilaili and Alice had returned from their morning walk. With a tiny smile on his lips, he extended toward her a tiny stone in a filthy brown hand. She looked at him a moment, turned her gaze in search of his father, and then reached out to take it from him. She curved her lips upward and nodded slowly, before handing it back to him. The hurt that came over his little face momentarily smothered the pain she felt every time she looked to him and she pulled her hand back.

"Thank you," she said softly. The little boy smiled and plopped down in front of her. He reached up for her hair, and she leaned back, away from his dirty little hand, grasping for her freshly washed hair. She shook her head and stood, moving into the longhouse to retrieve a small jug of water.

"Little boys and dirt," she murmured softly, extending out her hand to retrieve his wrist. He put up no resistance as she cleaned off his hands. She cleaned off the rock next and examined it closely. "This is very pretty," she told him softly, well aware he could not understand her.

"Anna," he said, pointing at her. She shook her head.

"Alice," she responded. He pouted. "Alice," she repeated.

"Alice," he said, putting the emphasis on the end of the word. Her lips turned upward again and she looked over his little face. Younger than William. Only just. She reached out and touched his cheek, tears burning at her eyes. She wanted to know where he was. It had not occurred to her until now. Her misery and grief blinding her. She looked around. Where was the man that had murdered her boy? What was his punishment? "Uh-LISS. Uh-LISS!" he repeated happily. She lowered her hand from his cheek.

"Good enough," she sighed, reaching out and rubbing a smudge of dirt from his cheek. "Where is your mother?"

He looked at her, tilting her head. His eyes were big and guileless. Full, pouty lips and chubby little cheeks, but his body was lean. His hair was thick and dark, coming over the top of his head like a mop, covering the tops of his eyes.

"Uh-LISS, Uh-LISS!" he said. Chilaili came out from the longhouse to scold him for being so loud. Alice said nothing, though if she had the desire to speak she would have told Chilaili he was not a bother and to let the boy yell. The boy pouted and shot a glare toward Chilaili. Chilaili sighed, stomped her foot, and returned to the longhouse. The little boy pushed himself up to his feet and reached for Alice's hand. He tried to yank her along with him but she refused. She did not want to leave the safety of the longhouse. She had not ventured into the village and she had no desire to.

"Uh-LISS!" he cried out.

"No," she said. He released her and hurried off. She watched him go before looking back into the fire. No one had brought her anything to mend, and wanted to enjoy the quiet. She could hear birds chirping and children playing in the distance. When she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was back at market, William playing a ways away. But always in sight. Always in sight. Her face crumpled a moment and her lip trembled but she regained control of herself. When her eyes popped open, Chilaili was standing in the door of the longhouse, eyes on her, sad and sympathetic. Alice bristled and looked back into the fire.

The little boy returned shortly after, a bundle of little stones and sticks in his hands. He smiled as he plopped down beside her again. Alice touched her lips as she watched him set up. The gash her lip was almost healed. The little boy threw a stone up in the air and she watched. He held out a stick to her. She took it, but simply stared back at him.

"Uh-LISS," he said and motioned with the stick. Slowly and with little enthusiasm she complied. His giggle of excitement was enough to bring up another tilt to her mouth. She blinked tiredly and decided it was better than chores. She was terribly lethargic some mornings. She attributed it to the strength of the tea. Some nights Chilaili made it weak. Just enough to get her to sleep and keep the nightmares at bay. Other nights, she made it strong. So strong she lasted only a few minutes before she began to drift off to sleep.

"Do not pout," she scolded him after a while of play. The boy was agreeable, but did not like to lose. He looked at her and as if he understood, his pout grew even deeper and he crossed his arms.

"Ahote."

Both turned in surprise. Megedagik stood with the newcomer from yesterday. He had a little bow and quiver in his hands. He held it up and the little's boys face went alight. As he scurried to join the two men, Megedagik looked to her. He said something and she blinked. Her eyes remained on his. He spoke again, and this time gave a nod in Chilaili's direction. Chilaili nodded slowly and replied.

"Uh-LISS!" the little boy cried as they walked away. He grabbed onto Megedagik's arm, lifting his feet up from the ground and walking up Megedagik's leg with his dirty feet. "Uh-LISS."

Alice raised a hand to wave goodbye.

"Uh-LISS!" he waved back, a smile on his face. With sad, tired eyes, her lips turned upward once again.

* * *

"Uh-LISS!" the little boy yelled as he ran in circles around Megedagik and Donehogawa.

"What does that mean?" Megedagik asked his late-wife's brother. Donehogawa did not seem to know.

"I've never heard him say it before," Donehogawa replied. "Ahote!"

The boy stopped and turned.

"What are you saying?"

"The Maskaanna is Uh-LISS," he replied.

"Must just be something she said to him," Megedagik replied.

"Assuming she even spoke," Donehogawa responded. "Boy of yours has an imagination."

"She _can_ speak. She simply refuses to," he said. "She will talk in her sleep. She spoke to the children yesterday when he almost fell into the fire. Just not to anyone else."

"I wish I might have seen her fight. I cannot imagine it. A warrior defeated by a woman. And a small little thing too."

"She took a thrashing, but she would have saved the child," he said grimly. "Had I not interfered."

"I disagree with your decision, but the boy's death was in no way your fault. He was supposed to die that day. That she would have saved him does not matter. If Matchitehlew had not been incompetent, or another found them instead… No, I think you should have let her kill him because she'd earned it. That he would have killed the boy after you ordered them spared…" he waved a hand. "You could not have foreseen that."

"I could not let him die, you know that."

"You could have," Donehogawa replied.

"He is your sister's brother."

"Hardly," Donehogawa scoffed. "You are more my brother than he. She would not have blamed you. You know that."

"I promised her I would protect him."

Donehogawa stopped. Ahote ran ahead.

"Do you think my sister would have approved of what we did?" he asked, eyebrow elevated. Megedagik said nothing. "Do you think she could have bared to look on him, knowing what he did to that child?"

"To go back… I would do things differently," Megedagik admitted. Donehogawa shrugged and began walking again.

"No sense lamenting over it now," he said. "Tell me again. How much of the fight did you see? What did she do?"

Megedagik thought back. He let out a deep sigh through his nose and began to tell the story again.

* * *

They returned and the food was ready. Aiyana and Sihu were weaving baskets. Chilaili was eating. Mansi was sitting in front of the Maskaanna, hands up with a little smile on her face. The Maskaanna pressed her white hands together and then extending one, pressing her palm to Mansi's. She pulled it back, clapped her hands together once again, and then outstretched her other hand. Mansi mimicked her this time and giggled. There was the hint of a smile on the Maskaanna's face. For once she did not look consumed in misery.

"Uh-LISS!" Ahote cried out, bringing forward the squirrel he had taken from his snare. A child might have seen a smile come to her face, but her eyes remained void.

"You know," Donehogawa said as they approached. "If it is such a bother to Aiyana to have her here, I can bring her back with me. I have the means to provide for another wife."

"No," Megedagik responded. He looked to Donehogawa and shook his head. "No."

"Know it is an option," Donehogawa said. "I quite like her looks."

Yes, and that was the problem. Even those not fond of the lighter skin could not ignore the fact that she was a beautiful young woman. Young, fresh faced, well–proportioned, with full pink lips and hair as smooth as any he had ever seen. He felt a familiar stirring of desire as they came back to the longhouse. Chilaili smiled warmly at him as he sat down before the fire. Aiyana began to rise.

"Maskaanna, my tea," he said and Aiyana froze. She looked at him, shot a withering look toward the white woman, and lowered herself back to the ground. The Maskaanna leaned forward. The water was boiling above the outside fire. He watched her as she put water into the cup. Submerged the tea leaves and scraped off some honey onto the edge of the up. She hesitated when she turned to hand to him. He fought the urge to smile as she once again refused to lower her gaze. He was pleased to see her spirit had not been destroyed.

She held out the tea with both hands, careful not to spill it. He held out a hand, but he was not close enough to take it.

"She's a stubborn thing isn't she," Donehogawa said when she refused to move any closer.

"Can you blame her?" Megedagik asked.

"I commend her," Donehogawa replied. "What can I give you for her?"

"She's not leaving," Megedagik replied and lowered his hand.

"If he wants her –"

"She is not leaving," he repeated, cutting Aiyana off. Aiyana pressed her lips together tightly and looked to the side. She respected him too much to have this fight in front of his family. She was too dutiful a wife. That fight would come later. "Maskaanna."

She came closer and handed him the cup before retreating back to her spot. She took the squirrel from Ahote and looked around. Megedagik took the knife and held it out to her.

"How shortly after the bonfire will you be leaving?" he asked Donehogawa.

"Not long," he answered. He felt the knife being taken from his hand. He laughed. "Orenda dislikes housing us as it is."

"You are free to stay here."

"I might just take you up on that. Where does she sleep. I'll sleep there," he chuckled. Megedagik looked over her. She was looking at the squirrel, clearly unsure of where to cut into it. He reached over, grabbed the squirrel and flipped it over. He pointed and then straightened.

She cut into it, fighting a grimace as she did. She had appeared almost horrified when Chilaili first tried to instruct her on skinning animals. The other white women had been just as horrified when they were made to work the fields. He was beginning to think it had less to do with the natural resistance a conquered people often showed, and a true bewilderment that a woman might be expected t do such a task. She had been far more accepting of the instructions to cook, prepare tea, and mending clothing.

"I saw one girl today," Sihu offered with an excited smile. "Eyes the color of the sky and hair like corn."

"The white elk, I call her," Chilaili said excitedly.

"Some sort of sickness?" Donehogawa asked.

"I do not think so," Megedagik mused. "She seems healthy."

"She is troublesome," Aiyana said. "She speaks their language with the others. She takes multiple breaks. She wears that filthy dress –"

"Askuweteau likes her," Chilaili smiled and popped a nut into her mouth. "He calls her Wawetseka."

"You should speak to him," Aiyana said. "About interfering with the planting. It isn't his place."

"I will speak to him," he promised her. Aiyana smiled at him softly.

"Uh-LISS."

He turned to look at his boy. Maskaanna turned her head in his direction. Her hands were bloody and she had a grimace still on her face.

"Uh-LISS?"

She raised her eyebrows and leaned toward him.

_That's her name._

"You can have some too," he told her. He was sitting just across from her, watching her prepare the little squirrel.

"Ahote," he said. The little boy looked at him. Megedagik gave him a nod. He smiled proudly.

"You can have all of it," he said and then looked to Megedagik. Megedagik gave another nod.

"Mansi," Megedagik said. He outstretched the cup to her and she set about making tea.

"This girl with the yellow hair and blue eyes," Donehogawa said. "I want to see her before we go."

"Come to the fields tomorrow and I will show her to you," Aiyana offered. A conversation broke out about the yellow haired girl. Megedagik only half listened. He much more enjoyed watching Maskaanna wipe the venison juices from his son's lips.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very, very much for the words of support. It means a lot to me. I would also never simply delete my stories and leave those of you that do read and comment hanging. You'll have a heads up and a location to continue reading. 
> 
> Thanks again!

Sarah rubbed her eyes as she walked toward the fields, the piece of fish Talisa had made her for breakfast securely in her hands. She raised it to her lips, nibbling slowly. She had not wanted to get out of bed this morning. She had moaned as Talisa tried to awake her, but Talisa was persistent. She gently stroked Sarah's hair as she sipped at her tea before the fire. When Sarah was forced to begin her too long walk to the fields, Talisa handed her a bit more to eat and helped straighten her bonnet. She encouraged her gently and then sent her on her way.

She finished the fish by the time she got to the fields and the sun was just beginning to come up over the trees. The air was still cool. She shivered as she stopped with the group at the edge of the fields. She still wasn't entirely sure what they were planting. So far, her work consisted of digging, refreshing the soil, weeding, and removing little rocks. One day, all she had to do was use a shovel and dig up and flip over an entirely empty field. She understood what she was doing. She knew the need for giving a field a season to replenish, but it still felt beyond needless.

Sarah stepped up with the rest of the white woman, rubbing her eyes. Aiyana looked over them, sighing gently and looking out to the fields. She squinting, thinking, and then nodded slowly. She held out an arm, motioning to them, but telling their 'overseer' where she wanted them. They moved on through the fields. She was given a plot to prepare. She preferred it when they were given personal tasks to communal chores. If she worked hard enough and fast enough, Aiyana would come to inspect and then let her go once she was finished. Aiyana was strict with the level fo quality she expected, but she was fair across the board. Sarah knew when she was going to be made to redo something and when Aiyana would give her the little nod, the half-hearted smile and then let her go home. In the weeks she had been out in the fields, she was the only one that Aiyana very rarely kept her late. Sometimes, she would give Sarah the larger job, making her stay longer. Initially, Sarah was quite bitter, and thought it was a way to punish her. It became clear to Sarah after a few days that the other savage women actually respected her for it.

Sarah moved on through the fields and stopped at her plot. She would have to do more work than the others today, but it looked like a personal task. It did not matter anyway. Ahanu would come by mid-morning, and would return for lunch in case they went past midday. He would come with water, something to eat, and would allow her to nestle comfortably beneath a tree at the edge of the fields. Aiyana never seemed very pleased. None of the other white women took breaks, though only two others remained. The others had gone off to different villages by now. The Indian women took breaks when they pleased it seemed and so Sarah thought it was fine too as well.

She had almost half the field done by the time he showed up for the first time. It was probably the only time Aiyana's eyes did not linger on her angrily as she hurried off to meet him at the tree line.

Aiyana wasn't pleased with how often Ahanu came to visit it. A few days before, he arrived with a bowl filled to the brim with blueberries. Frances had hurried over excitedly and the two girls dug into the fresh fruit. They smiled at him and gave their thanks as they plopped the juicy berries between their lips.

"Askuweteau," Aiyana had called, stalking over angrily. Ahanu turned his head. The two spoke briefly. Sarah reached out to take the canteen from his side and he slung the strap from his shoulder and held it out. She shared with Frances as they watched the two argue.

The conversation between Ahanu and Aiyana grew more heated. Sarah finished the water and handed it back to him. Ahanu did not leave until the blueberries were gone. He walked away from an angry Aiyana. Aiyana looked at her, eyes filled to the brim with frustrated anger, but Sarah had the feeling it wasn't entirely directed at her. They stared at each other a few moments before Aiyana sighed and motioned with an exasperated wave of her arms for her to continue her work. Sarah had made sure that when Ahanu was not present, she worked diligently since.

"Wawetseka," he smiled as she approached now.

"Good morning," she answered and reached for his canteen. His smile widened as she took it from him and drank greedily.

"Good morning," he repeated happily. He said something, of which she got only the gist, and she took the meat from him. She settled down on the grass and ate happily. She caught her breath, wiped the sweat from her bow, and fixed her bonnet. She only ever felt secure removing her bonnet when he was around. No one would point, or laugh, or come try and touch her hair when he was close by. He sat down beside her as she removed her hair from the covering. He spoke to her, raising a hand over her hair, but never quite touching it.

Some glanced in her direction. When news got around amongst the Indian women that her hair was blond, she was made to remove the cover. They pulled at it. They gawked at it. Many laughed. Some smiled. Others turned away in disgust. It was Aiyana that sent them all scurrying off, seizing her bonnet from the woman that had stolen it and pressed it back into Sarah's hands. She had gently guided Sarah back to her plot, speaking a kind word and gently patting the top of her bonnet covered head. Since then, even when speaking with her fellow captives, she never said a bad word aloud about the beautiful savage woman.

Sarah took the bonnet and then put the bonnet back onto her head. It was then that she noticed the extra glances she was getting from Aiyana. The less time between glances, the more annoyed she was. She finished the last of the food and drank down the rest of the water as she stood. Ahanu rose with her and accepted the canteen back from her. He said something as she hurried back to her plot, but she was not sure what it was. By the time she was kneeling back in her plot, he was gone.

When he returned next she had already finished her plot, but Aiyana, upon examining her work, had her help Frances. She was one of the last of the white women to remain in the village. The others were sent away. To other villages, Talisa had said. Sarah hoped it were true, but sometimes, terrible thoughts would enter head. Frances and she had formed an odd friendship. They yelled at each other more than they spoke, and yet both clung onto the other's presence like a life line. She had never told Sarah who she had lost. Sarah never told Frances. Neither had to. Frances did not speak much in general. Frances obeyed her Indian captors, but everything she did was slow. It seemed Aiyana no longer believed simply yelling at her would get her work done faster. Now it was Sarah's job too. She pushed herself up from the dirt when she saw Ahanu, a relieved smile coming to her face.

"If only we could all take so many breaks," Frances said bitterly. Sarah did not break stride as she snapped back, "If only you could do your own job on your own."

She marched off, face flushed from heat and anger. Ahanu was already seated underneath the canopy of trees when she arrived and she plopped down with a sigh. He handed her the water first and then carefully unwrapped the fish. Her eyes flickered with disappointment, but she forced a smile of thanks. He said something. She looked at him. He pointed to the fish in her hands. She didn't know what to say, and she was too embarrassed to try. She just shook her head at him. A gush of air escaped between her lips in a pained laugh. To her surprise a look of annoyance took over his dark face. His lips pressed together, the nostrils on his hooked nose flared, and he looked aware into the fields. He squinted into the sun, a gust of air bursting from his nose in frustration.

He suddenly rose and walked away, leaving her to finish her food alone. She looked after him. She no longer had much of an appetite. She walked back to the fields, not taking much time to relax during her second break.

"Frances," she said once she arrived, standing in one of the rows they had dug. "Do you want some?"

She held out the fish to her. Frances took it without a word and began to eat.

"I suppose you could have picked an uglier savage," she said as she ate the fish.

"I'm sorry?" Sarah asked. Aiyana was glancing toward them, but Sarah remained standing, arms crossed, looking out over the filed.

"Come now," Frances sighed. "We all know what you're doing."

Sarah's lips parted and a frown came to her face.

"And what would that be exactly?" she asked sharply. An Indian woman yelled at them. They weren't to speak their tongue. That much Sarah knew, but she saw no reason why they should not be able to speak English with one another. Sarah had voiced that opinion only once. A large swat to the face with a fan of birch made sure of that.

"No one blames you," Frances said. "I'd do it myself… if I found one I could stomach."

"I am not… I have done nothing to shame myself," Sarah replied. Frances looked to her with disbelief in her gray eyes. They got some attention from the savages, but next to Sarah, she was rather plain.

"Of course, you haven't," Frances said, finishing the fish. "Forgive me for saying so."

"I have not!" Sarah said louder.

"I believe you," Frances answered, though it was clear she didn't. Sarah pinched her lips together. The Indian woman suddenly approached, yelling angrily at them. Sarah glanced over to Aiyana, who was watching with arms crossed over her chest. Sarah sighed and walked over to kneel beside Frances. The Indian woman, with a few more choice words, finally walked away.

"If you aren't sleeping with him, you might consider it," Frances replied. "Eventually, he'll move on to someone who will."

Sarah glanced over at her; her hands froze in the dirt.

"Love, he's not bringing you food because he feels bad about what happened," Frances said. "He wants to lift up your skirts." She shook her head, muttering something about innocence and children.

Sarah ignored her. She kept her face down and worked on in silence.

* * *

Sarah walked back to the hut and plopped down by the fire, arms and legs aching, dress covered in filth, clothing uncomfortably damp from the coating of sweat that covered her body.

Rowtag looked up from the blade he was fastening to a piece of wood. He smiled as he saw her. He simply stared, smile still on his face. She tried to ignore him, but his stare persisted and she looked up.

"What?" she snapped in English. His smile faltered but did not fall.

"Water," he said, raising a hand and using the crude knife to point to the hut. "More."

"Get your own bloody water," she sighed. She pulled at the laces of her boots, pulling her foot free from the sweaty confines to see more holes budding up in her stockings. She touched a hole carefully, lamenting the limited time she had left with them.

"Alawa," he said. It was what he called her. It seemed like each savage had their own name for her. It was hard to keep straight. She knew Rowtag's name for her because it sounded pretty. Milap's she knew was an insult. He wouldn't say it front of Talisa. She looked up from her stocking. He pointed to the hut with the knife again.

"Water. Now," he said not unkindly. She sighed and looked down to her shoes.

"Give me a minute," she muttered. She spoke English when she was tired. She didn't care that they couldn't understand her. She didn't feel much like reaching into her brain and trying to find the proper words only to find herself laughed at for her pathetic attempts.

She put her shoes back on and moved into the hut to pick up the little basin. As she walked out she paused before Rowtag. He was skinny. There wasn't much muscle on him. At least, if there was it was under the flat, rather unimpressive flesh on his brown body.

"Where I come from, a man offers to do such things for a lady," she told him. He looked up, looking back blankly and blinking out his annoyance. She shook her head and moved on down to the river.

When she arrived at her normal place, she continued walking, along the spongy earth, through some brush, and on. If Rowtag didn't want to get the water himself, he could wait for it. She wanted to be alone.

She put the basin once she was in a nice, secluded little area. She plopped down and removed her shoes. Feet free from their sweaty confines she slowly slid off her stockings. She soaked them in the river, wringing out the filth, and soaked them again.

Considering, she looked around. She heard nothing but birds and the soft rustle of the trees above. Sun peaked through the tops of the trees. There was a green hue in the air.

She reached up and pulled at the strings of her bodice. She pulled it free with a sigh. She glanced over her shoulders again. She was well hidden. She removed her outer shirt and submerged it into the water. She wrung it out, and resubmerged it. She did not stop the process until the water she rung out was clear. She cleaned her apron, probably the least salvageable item of clothing, and then detached her outer petticoat. Once she was satisfied with them, she submerged her feet into the water. She laid back in the spongy earth.

She laid their for some time. She looked up at the sun peaking its way through the trees. She closed her eyes and listened to the water of the brook. She said the kids prayer for strength. She hummed a lullaby her mother used to sing to her. She raised her hands to her face and burst into tears.

* * *

Ahanu had not followed her in hopes that she would undress. He had seen her walking down the path and simply wanted to assist her with the water. He had let his frustration take control of him earlier in the afternoon. He just wanted to be able to speak to her.

But when she went off the trail and creeped along the shoreline away from her usual boundary, he followed in the opposite shore. He might have let his presence be known if she hadn't started to undress. It had not been his intention, but he was not so honorable as to leave her in peace. If anything, he was there to protect her unless someone else came and saw her in her vulnerable state.

She lay on the show, her tears now dry, staring up at the sky with red eyes. Her clothing was hung in the branches of the trees close to her. Her feet were bare, submerged still in the water.

He had been amazed at the layers she wore. Two skirts. Three shirts. Leggings and shoes. It was unnecessary to wear so much, though he thought undressing her would be a fun process.

"Alawa!"

He turned his head sharply. Wawetseka jumped up and began collecting her clothing. She put it on quickly, and by the time Rowtag burst trough the brush she was tying the strings at the front of her outermost layer. Why would anyone want to cover such a beautiful form that way?

"Alawa!"

Little pea. Ahanu snorted softly. Too affectionate a name.

"What are you doing?" He asked angrily. "You can't come so far. It isn't safe."

She pulled on her leggings and then added her boots. She said something in English, sniffling and wiping her nose.

Rowtag's shoulders slumped as he looked at her and his eyes softened. He nodded and crouched down beside her and patting her head. He smiled at her.

"Come now, Alawa," he murmured. She got to her feet and wiped her eyes again. Ahanu watched her follow Rowtag back through the thicker brush along the shore line. Ahanu sighed and moved in the opposite direction, wondering who among those he had killed she knew.

* * *

Sarah dragged her shovel along the dirt, creating a little path in its wake. She checked over her shoulder as she hurried backward. When she got to the end of her plot she repeated. Aiyana did not let her get far before she took the shovel from Sarah and pressed it into the dirt. She made a little path a bit deeper and then spoke, pointing to the new depth. Sarah nodded, grateful Aiyana had corrected her before she got too far. Aiyana gave Sarah what could be considered a smile by Aiyana's standards and moved on down the path.

She waited for Ahanu to arrive, but the normal time passed and he did not appear. Her stomach began to complain and her head began to hurt under the sun. It was a warm day. Sarah knew enough from her father that it was time to plant. The nights were no longer too cold, the days were growing warmer, and Sarah thought the chance of another frost was unlikely.

She sat down in the dirt for a short while. She was yelled at by an Indian woman. Sarah ignored her. She helped Frances for a short while. Frances had slowed significantly after only her second path made on her plot.

"Where is he?" Frances asked after a while. Sarah straightened and looked out along the tree line.

"I don't know," she answered. "I think… I think he was angry with me when he last left."

"Too bad. That was good fish."

Sarah moved back to her plot.

When Sarah went to Aiyana to see if she could go home, Aiyana gave her assent with a simple jab of her chin and a lift of her eyebrows. She turned back around to speak to an Indian woman. Sarah walked away, slightly surprised.

She assisted Frances until her work was done and then left. If Aiyana wanted Frances to do more after her inspection, she could do it herself.

She walked back to her hut to find it empty. She refilled the water and brewed some tea.

Rowtag arrived with some friends an hour later. Sarah saw them approaching and ducked inside the hut. When they arrived, Rowtag called out to her but she remained inside. He popped his head inside the hut.

"Alawa," he smiled. He held up a string of fish.

"No," she shook her head. "They leave."

He frowned.

"Come make fish," he said.

"No," she said sternly. He lowered his arm, face stern.

"Yes. Come now."

"No," she said again. He approached her, getting to her spot on the bedstand and yanking her to her feet. She tried to pull away from him but his grip was too strong. "Let go!" She cried in English. She pushed at his chest but he eventually got her outside of the hut. He tossed her down on the ground before the fire with such force that her air was knocked from her lungs.

He flipped her over; she was still trying to suck air in through her lungs. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. He straddled her, holding a finger to her face and scolding her severely. She blinked back tears as he climbed off of her. The others laughed and she reached out to seize the fish they had caught.

As she cut into the fish and prepared it for the fire, she looked up, hoping she might find Ahanu there on the tree line. She didn't and more tears stung at her eyes.

Rowtag reached out and pulled her bonnet from her head. The string got caught on her neck and she had to yank away from him in order to unfasten it. She did so quickly, fingers scrambling at the ties. He pulled it away and the boys, all around her age, leaned forward to look.

"Don't touch me," she muttered, gently slapping a hand away, but she was too afraid Rowtag might throw her down again if she resisted. One of the hands pulled at her hair and she closed her eyes.

"Alawa," Rowtag said. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He crouched down before her. He looked over his shoulder and then reached behind her. He pulled her hair free. A tear came down her cheek.

They spoke, touching her hair and her clothing, not a thought in the world of her discomfort. Finally they let her be and she cooked up the fish. Once it was finished she went back into the hut. Rowtag did not stop her this time. Once inside, she lay down on her bed stand, closed her eyes, and softly cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Sarah walked down the path toward the center of town with the rest of the fish. She looked around anxiously, hoping to fine Ahanu. Talisa had returned and woke her. Rowtag and his friends had left by then. She put the rest of the fish onto the platter and made her way toward the center of town. She tried to suck back her tears. She wanted her mummy. She wanted her mummy to make her a cup of tea and to sit on her papa's lap while he reminded her of the old country. Her back hurt from where she had landed.

When she found him her heart leapt and she hurried toward him without a thought. He was with a group of men and her heart pounded anxiously. She just wanted to be sure he wasn't angry.

"Good morning," she said, stopping just behind him. She recognized three of the men with him. Two she did not. They looked at her, smiles stretching across their faces. Ahanu turned around with a smile.

"Good evening," he answered in surprise. She blushed.

"Good evening," she corrected. She raised up the basket to show him what she had. "I bring food to center," she told him.

"What food do you bring?" he asked, using the words he knew she understood. She looked at the basket, searching for the correct words. She bit her bottom lip.

"Um… fish," she said. "I make fish. Samoset catches fish."

"Samoset likes fish. You will eat a lot of fish."

He spoke very slowly for her, a small curve to his lips. Though she did not know many of the words he said, she understood the gist.

"I do not like fish," she admitted with a tiny smile. He raised his eyebrows.

"I bring you something."

She smiled and looked back in the basket. She tried to think of something more to say but words were escaping her.

"I make tea," she said. "Um..."

One of his friends said something to her. Another laughed, another shook his head, bemused, and Ahanu whirled around and snapped at him. Her skin colored, embarrassed by whatever was said and made to leave. She just couldn't cry in front of them.

"No, no, no, Wawetseka," he said gently, beckoning her back. She paused and he closed the gap.

"I go," she said, glancing at his amused friends, her eyes were wet and she blinked.

"You stay," he answered rather curtly. He reached out and gripped her upper arm, pulling her closer. He spoke again, voice more gentle. She didn't know what he said, but his words were kind.

She stepped forward, embarrassed. He asked her, "You make me tea?"

"Um, I... leaves. Water."

One of them snickered. Sarah blinked, tears of embarrassment returning to her eyes. It was why she had not wished to speak to him. Still, she thought she had learned so much more than this.

"I go," she said and turned to leave again. Ahanu snapped and reached out, seizing her arm firmly. His grip was far from painful. It was not even uncomfortable, but it was firm. She looked back in surprise. He was looking at the one that snickered. They shared some harsh sounding words before he looked back to her.

"You speak well," he assured her, stepping closer still. His hand stayed on her arm. "Very good."

She smiled softly.

"I..."

She wanted to say so much but simply couldn't. It infuriated her. The one that had snickered, snickered some more, leaning on a friend's shoulder with his elbow.

"You speak English then," she snapped. " _Savage_."

Ahanu stepped closer to her suddenly, face hard as stone. He spoke to her, finger raised to her face.

"It's what you are," she replied in English again. She blinked back her angry tears and turned to walk away. She went to the center of town and put out the fish. She wiped her cheek angrily as she put the fish into the pot. When she looked back Ahanu and his friends were gone.

She walked back to the hut with a tiny frown, angry at herself for being so foolish, angry at his friends for embarrassing her, and angry at Ahanu for being angry at her.

She plopped down on the furs, poking a stick into the fire and pouting softly. Talisa came out of the hut. She slowed. Sarah looked up, face crumpled and a tear slid down her cheek.

"I miss my mummy," she whispered. Tears burst from her eyes and she lowered her face into hands. In the midst of her weeping, she was vaguely away from arms wrapping around her. She was pulled gently to the side, cradled against a warm body, hands gently stroking her hair, kind, soft words murmured to the top of her head. It only made her cry harder.

* * *

Her lips curved upward when she saw him coming from the little beaten path. She blushed as she saw the state of his clothing. Breechcloth and leggings that stopped just above the knee. He wore a shirt, thank god, but the sleeves were on existent, and she could see the fine outline of the muscles in his thighs.

"Good morning," she greeted happily. She was pleased to see his friends were not with him.

"Good morning, Wawetseka," he smiled. He held up a string of animals. "I bring you food."

He knelt down beside her and laid out the animals.

"Not fish," he smiled. She looked over the animals happily, biting the inside of her lower lip.

"I make," she said, touching one of the birds.

"I cook," he corrected her. "I will cook these."

She frowned.

"I cook. I will cook these," she responded. He smiled and nodded. "I make tea?"

He seemed confused at first and then laughed with comprehension. His laugh was one of amusement, but it did not bring tears to her eyes as his friends had the day before.

"Yes, you make tea," he told her. She got up and went into the long house. She fetched a cup and some tea and returned to boil the water by the outside fire.

As she set about it she asked him, "bring water. You?"

He looked at her.

"I can help you," he answered.

"You help bring water," she murmured to herself. She knew the word help. She had learned it. She cursed herself for not remembering it.

"You speak," he said and she turned to look at him. He pressed a hand to his mouth and made a gesture. "Speak very well."

She knew she didn't, but she smiled proudly anyway. She felt bad about what she had called him.

"I speak with Talisa all days. Rowtag."

"Rowtag," he said and she moved to sit with him.

"Milap," she told him. She reached up and patted her bonnet. "My bonnet." She said bonnet in English. She didn't have the word for it. "He..." she made the motion of taking it from her head.

Ahanu tilted his head as he looked at her. He reached up and gently pulled at the string of her bonnet. She bit her lips as he gently pulled the bonnet from her head. She didn't want him to take it off, but she did not want him to leave either.

He removed it from her head and placed it on the furs in front of them. His thumb and forefinger gently pinched a strand of hair.

"Milap say ugly," she said. He smiled. He said something about Milap she did not understand.

"Beautiful," he said instead. That she understood. She bit her bottom lip and looked to the water. Without a word she moved away from him to make the tea.

"Strong or weak?" She asked.

"Strong," he answered. He had her bonnet in his hands. He examined it closely, running a finger along a seam.

She returned to her seat and handed him the cup. He asked her something. She shook her head at him. He reached out and touched the animals.

"Pheasant," he said. "Quail. Rabbit."

"Pheasant," she repeated. "Quail. Rabbit."

He nodded.

"I hunt," he said, touching his chest. "For you," he motioned to her. "You cook and eat. Yes?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I hunt," he repeated, touching his chest. "For you. Understand?"

She frowned. "Yes," she laughed.

"Good. Good," he smiled. He reached out and touched the rabbit. "Save skin. Give to me. I make you blanket."

"Yes," she answered and looked for a knife. She could not find one but Ahanu handed her his. She hesitated, hovering the blade over the fur. He pointed to the rabbit, said something, and took the knife from her. He showed her how to skin the animal, but he did it with such ease, she doubted she would ever be able to do it with the same skill.

She prepared the meat as he continued to speak and though she still understood very little, she made every effort to respond to him.

"You come tomorrow?" she asked. "To fields and then you help with water?"

"I will come," he promised. She looked around and then moved away from the fire, moving toward him on her knees.

"Rowtag… he…" she tried to think of the word. She didn't know it. She tried to make the motions, but he only shook his head, not understanding. She sighed and went back to preparing the food.

She was just handing him the bowl of cooked meat when Samoset and Rowtag returned. Samoset spoke, the harshness of his tone tearing the smile from her face.

* * *

Ahanu looked up from Wawetseka when Samoset said his name, voice sharp. He had been enjoying their conversation, though neither really understood the other, and it seemed that every time she tried to convey a thought that he would not understand, her frustration mounted.

"Samoset," he greeted.

"What are you doing here boy?" he asked. Ahanu tensed and slowly rose to his feet, placing his bowl down by Wawetseka's.

"I was visiting the girl," he answered. "I looked after her on the trail."

"She's well taken care of here," he answered shortly. Ahanu frowned.

"I just wanted to say hello."

"I know what you were doing," he answered shaprly. "I don't want to see you around here again. Understand?"

"No, I don't," Ahanu answered, skin burning with anger.

Rowtag stepped onto view behind Samoset, eyes twinkling with amusement. He moved to sit beside Wawetseka, showing her a large fish he had caught.

"I know what you're after boy. You won't find it here. Now go. Leave her be."

"I'm not - "

"Samoset?" Talisa asked. Both men turned their heads. She beckoned her brother to come into the longhouse with her. Ahanu looked to Wawetseka as they retreated. Rowtag was putting the fish in her face.

"Get that out of her face," Ahanu snapped at him. Rowtag lowered the fish, surprised at the harshness in his voice. He wasn't taunting her; he was clearly just proud of the fish. Ahanu didn't care. His muscles were taught and his face burned.

"Askuweteau," Rowtag said, getting up to his feet. "I saw you shooting the other day. It's amazing."

"Thank you," he replied curtly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking to the hut.

"Do you think one day you could - "

"Wawetseka," Ahanu said, walking past Rowtag and kneeling back down before the girl with the eyes like the sea. "You tell Samoset I help you, yes?"

Her lips parted, brow furrowing.

"You tell Samoset, we are friends," he said slowly. "You want to see me."

"I... you hunt and I cook," she said, a lilt of a question in her voice. He sighed softly and ran his hand over the shaved half of his head. Stubble was beginning to grow in. He'd need to shave that soon.

"Go on then, Askuweteau," Samoset said, coming from the long house, Talisa behind him, a frown of concern etched onto her face. "I don't want to see you sniffing around her anymore. Understand?"

"No. I don't," he answered simply, still crouched before Wawetseka.

"Go now, leave the child. You're too old for her," Talisa answered.

"Too old for her?" he asked incredulously. "I just want to help her."

"She does not need your help. All you aim to do is prove yourself a worthy provider. A provider she does not need. Now go," Samoset said.

"Understand the state she is now, Etchemin," Talisa pleaded. Ahanu did understand. He understood very well. It was why she needed someone with her best interest to look out for her.

"She does not wish for me to go," he pointed out. "Why must I? Wawetseka," he said, crouching before her again. "Tell them, you want to see me, yes?"

"Boy, if you don't leave you'll take beating and only after that will you have to answer to Powhatan," Samoset before she could comprehend what he was saying. Ahanu pushed himself up to his feet, shoulders back, chin lifted, eyes burning and fingers curled into fists.

Samoset stepped toward him, ready for a fight. Ahanu watched, face stone, eyes hard. He looked down at Wawetseka. Her lips parted, blue eyes twinkling with concern. With what came close a snarl, but would be best described as a scowl, he turned and stormed away, both infuriated and humiliated.

A vein popped in his neck. Another pulsed in his forehead. He would simply have to do with his short visits to the fields.

* * *

Chogan sat up from his spot on the animal fur excitedly, reaching out an arm and pointing frantically to the other side of the town center. Melkedoodum's wife's eyes widened. The reaction aroused a feeling of unease and Ahanu looked up in his own surprise.

"That's her. _That's her._ The Maskaanna."

"It is not," Melkedoodum sneered. Ahanu felt a ripple of surprise course through him. She was young, far younger than he had supposed upon first seeing her. Quite beautiful too, from this distance. Her hair was the color of burnt honey, skin fair, features delicate and stature small.

"Seeing her like that – I forgot how small she is," Akando observed.

"Matchitehlew," Chogan said with finality, "Should never show his face again."

"Down and eye, he is most likely not to attend the celebration."

"Megedagik would not allow it," Ahanu added. He watched the Maskaanna walk toward the tables at the center of town. A little boy followed close behind, latched onto her skirts with a tight little fist.

"I bet Megedagik has his hands full," Melkedoodum chuckled. "Aiyana is jealous enough and if I had the Maskaanna under my roof I'd –"

" –treat her with the utmost respect."

All jumped to their feet, turning to face the great warrior with surprised but respectful looks on their faces. He looked to Melkedoodum, dark eyes piercing.

"That is what you were going to say."

"Oh – Yes – Yes, of course," he hurried out. Megedagik nodded slowly and then turned his gaze to Ahanu. Ahanu's mouth went dry. For a moment, he thought Megedagik was about to ask for permission to pursue Wawetseka. There were a few reasons that the thought was ridiculous, but for that fleeting moment the terror was very real. Megedagik had two wives and a white woman to provide for. He would have no need for a fourth mouth to fill. And if he did wish to take Wawetseka for his own, a sign of status perhaps, he would certainly not need Ahanu's consent.

"Your interference with planting will come to an end. I don't think I need to tell you how disrespectful your behavior has been. I do not care what you do with the girl, but visit her on her own time."

He turned to leave, but Ahanu stepped forward.

"Megedagik, wait."

Megedagik turned slowly. He waited silently.

"I only wish to see that she is cared for," Ahanu explained. "She is not used to such work. The white women, they're worked too hard."

"And like all conquered peoples they will learn to adapt," Megedagik responded.

"Megedagik," he stopped him from retreating again. "The white women… they're treated unfairly. I'm only making sure that she is not suffering."

"Unfairly?" Megedagik asked. "How?"

"They get no breaks. No water or food is provided them during the day. If they are given breaks they aren't allowed to go far enough to gather water. They can't speak their own language –"

"All given by Powhatan's order," he replied shortly. "Do you question the wisdom of his order?"

Ahanu swallowed thickly.

"No," he answered.

"Then allow me to say once more, so you understand. Your interference with the planting will cease. It is not your place. You forget these women are prisoners. They will be expected to work."

He turned to leave, and before Ahanu even knew the words were leaving his mouth, he called out after him, "and when will the Maskaanna be joining them in the fields."

He could feel his friends' eyes on his back, digging holes into his flesh like sharp daggers. Megedagik turned slowly, pinning Ahanu with a gaze that chilled him.

"Do you think we are equals, boy?" he asked. Ahanu just shook his head. "You are a fine warrior with a bright future. Do not let pride and mulishness squander that."

"Forgive me, for speaking out of turn," he said softly. This time he let Megedagik leave unmolested.

"Wow," Chogan said once Megedagik was well out of sight.

"That was…. Brave," Akando added.

Ahanu started after him, grinding his teeth together.

"I can't go to the fields. I can't see her at home," he lamented, plopping down angrily. He dug into his belongings and retrieved a mint leaf.

"There is one thing you could do," Akando offered. Ahanu looked at him and waited. "Go speak with Aiyana."

Melkedoodum chortled. "No on that front. Even I'm afraid of her."

"She was angry because you were interfering with the planting," Akando reasoned. "It was an insult to her authority. If you go ask for her permission to deliver gifts, she'll probably let you."

"What about Megedagik?" Chogan asked.

"He said he didn't care what you did with her," Melkedoodum replied. "He's too busy fucking the Maskaanna."

"If he heard you saying that," Akando replied with disapproval.

"If _Aiyana_ heard you saying that," Chogan cackled.

"Think she would let me?" Ahanu asked, sucking softly on the mint leaf.

"I would be surprised if she didn't," Akando answered. Ahanu nodded. "She's always been fair."

"I'll talk to her."

He rose and began to walk away.

"She'll be in the fields right now!" Chogan reminded him. Ahanu paused and sighed. He stormed back to the fur and plopped down. He had gone out hunting again the day before. He had not been able to go to her in the fields. The last time he'd seen her, he had been run from Samoset's fire.

"Think she's waiting for you?" Melkedoodum taunted. "I bet she won't understand why you stop showing up."

"Stop," Ahanu said sharply.

"Think Rowtag might have a shot at her?"

" _Stop_."

Melkedoodum chuckled to himself. He nudged Akando, who seemed entirely unimpressed.

Ahanu ended up venturing toward Megedagik's longhouse when he believed that Aiyana would be returning from the fields and when he was entirely certain Megedagik was not present. He spotted him walking toward the wood pile with a little boy on his shoulders and directly set course for the home.

He arrived, but the only woman seated by the fire was pale of face. Her eyes were both empty and full to the brim with unspoken sadness, a flicker of distrust twinkling just above the depths of despair within.

"Maskaanna," he greeted respectfully. "May I sit and wait by your fire?"

She stared at him, face grim, and then slowly went back to mending her shirt. She looked up when he sat down, considered him a moment, and then went back to her work.

"Do you know when Aiyana will return?" he asked. "Aiyana?"

The woman looked toward the longhouse and jabbed with her chin. Aiyana, having heard her name, stepped outside, two steaming bowls in her hands. She passed one to the Maskaanna, who took it without a word.

"Askuweteau," she greeted coldly.

"Aiyana," he greeted. "I hope you are well."

"As well as well can be."

She sat down on the opposite side of the fire as Maskaanna.

"I came to apologize. I was out of line in my interference."

"Yes. You were," she responded simply. Ahanu considered what to say next. He sat down beside her, but at a respectful distance.

"Samoset said I cannot see her," he decided to be honest. "I can't go to his fire, I must be able to see her in the fields."

"Perhaps you should leave her in peace," Aiyana suggested. "Her family was killed, I assume. The last thing she wants is a Powhatan lover."

"I - my aim is not to bed her."

Aiyana laughed bitterly and looked at him with lowered eyebrows.

"Spare me," she answered.

"Please, I promise not to overstep my bounds again. Give me a small window to visit her and bring her food and water," he asked sincerely.

"The Maskaanna," she said suddenly. The Maskaanna looked up at the sound of her name, but soon went back to eating. "Did you see her upon capture?"

Ahanu looked at her.

"I did," he answered and then looked back to Aiyana.

Aiyana looked at him and quite bluntly asked "what did she look like?"

"She was beaten severely," Ahanu answered. "Very severely. But she was on her feet. Amazing really."

"Her face?"

"Swollen. Purple," he looked to her. "I am actually amazed how young she is. I had imagined her older. Five plantings at least."

Aiyana nodded slowly.

"Once a day," she said abruptly. "She works only half days. Two breaks are unnecessary."

"Thank you," Ahanu said happily. "Thank you."

"Only because she's a good worker when you aren't there to distract her," Aiyana clarified. "I do not approve of your pursuit. I think you should leave her be."

"If she tells me to leave her be then I will leave her be," he lied. "But she has never seemed anything but pleased to see me."

"Very well," she answered. "Once a day only. And be sure it is not too long."

"Yes, yes of course," Ahanu replied, getting to his feet. "Thank you."

"If you see Chilaili, tell her she needs to come back to fetch the water," Aiyana replied, and though it was prefaced with the words 'if you see her', he understood it to be an order.

He set off to find Chilaili. As he walked through the center, he anxiously kept an eye out for his yellow-haired-girl.

When he arrived at the fields the next day, a basket of freshly picked blueberries and a blanket made from fox, his heart was warmed by the smile that came to her face.


	10. X

X

She woke to the sound of drums and chanting. Heavy, low, steady drums and terrible singing. Halting, loud, high pitched, low. She pushed herself up from the bedstand with foggy eyes, brow furrowed. She was alone and she was glad for it. As she tried to roll around, she fell to the ground with a loud thud. Luckily, it was not a far fall, but with the fog of sleep still hanging over her, it was a painful jolt that further contributed to her disorientation. She remained on the floor and pressed her face to the bedstand. The drumming continued, the chants, she heard shrieking.

She pushed herself up and submerged her face in the water bowl. She could not possibly care less if Milap got angry. She kept her face submerged. She could not hear the drums or the chants or the shrieks. It was blissfully peaceful. She pulled her head out. She breathed in violently, sucking in much needed oxygen into her lungs. Water dripped from her hair and face. She crawled toward the door, face forward so that her dress would not get wet.

The air outside was fresh and warm. It spelled of spring. Hidden beneath the savage cries were the pretty songs of birds. She tried to focus on that. Outside, there were not many people around. She saw some children playing. A woman was scraping down a fox fur. She quickly collected her bonnet and apron. Talisa had washed them for her. Anxiously looking over each shoulder, she made her way down the little path to the river. She slipped from village walls easily. Almost no one was at the back gate, and those that were had seen her pass what already felt like a hundred times before.

Once past the gate, a sigh of relief left her. She felt a sense of freedom and each step she took the chanting faded further into the distance. She walked down to the river and then moved along the bank, further into the brush. She did not mind how far she went. All she had to do was follow the river and she would return to the bank where she collected water. She came across a clearing large enough for her to sit in comfortably. She removed her bonnet, apron, bodice, and outer petticoat. The day was so warm, she was actually rather comfortable.

She cleaned her outer clothing, humming softly to herself. She cried briefly. She hugged her knees to her chest, buried her face in her petticoat, and cried. She felt better afterward. She splashed cold water into her face. Digging her hand into the bottom of the river, she managed to find a rock large enough to press to her eyes. Soon the swelling went down and no one would have known the girl spent the majority of the morning crying.

She laid back on the bank, gazing up at the blue peaking down from between the tops of the trees. The leaves were starting to bloom. Spring would be present in full force soon. She tried to find happiness in it. It had always been her favorite season. Renewal. Warmth. The beginning of planting. Her mother would start singing again. Windows thrown open. Even her chores were not so unbearable during this time. But now, she struggled to find peace in it now.

She did not know she was awake until she sprung awake. Rustling of brush from across the stream drew her gaze. Emerging from behind a tree was a frightful savage. Save a strip of hair at the center of his scalp, his head was shaved clean. He was lean, though not muscular. But like all of these savages, he was tall, and his broad shoulders and long les suggested that power resided inside his undefined muscle. She swallowed thickly, lips parting. He had a single line of blank paint down his right cheek.

A second savage came into view. He had been crouched by in the water. She had not seen him until he rose to his feet. Her head darted to glance to her drying clothing. It was there, holding the petticoat to his smiling face, that she saw the third savage. A breath escaped her. The blood pumping through her veins turned so cold she could feed it in her limbs. A freezing pain pulsing beneath her skin, chest constricting and lungs bursting.

The savage in the water began to approach her. The one on the bank stepped into the water. The other dropped her petticoat and walked toward her. A cry broke from her throat and she got to her hands and knees. She pushed herself to her feet, nearly in the tree line. The savage laughed as he got in front of her. His hands went to her skirts. She whirled around. One hand let her go, the other remained on her under petticoat. Fabric ripped and she slammed into another hard body. They spoke to her. If she weren't so terrified, if they weren't in this position, she would have thought they were trying to calm her down that they were being kind.

"Let me go," she cried. "Please stop."

She shrieked her feet were grabbed out from under her. The one with her skirt lowered her down to the ground. He held her arms hard, yanked hard behind her back. She kicked at the savage settling between her legs. Her skirts were forced upward. She was saved by her drawers. The few brief moments it took him to discover the opening in the fabric. She wept. She tried to kick.

She was yanked forward; the savage reached between his legs. She shrieked for help but the third savage arrived, forcing her bonnet into her mouth, nearly down her throat. She tried to breath in but couldn't. Her nose was stuffed. The bonnet was shoved too far down her throat.

And suddenly they were off of her. Running away down the tree line, they left her with just ripped skirts, wet cheeks, and a burning chest. She sat up, choking out the bonnet from her mouth. She breathed in hard. Oxygen flooded back into her lungs. Two men suddenly ran into the clearing from the opposite direction the others had fled. One pursued them, another knelt by her side. A large hand touched her back; another touched her cheek. She blinked at him. Fat tears spilled from her red eyes. A broken sob left her when she saw Rowtag looking at her.

"I told you. You don't go far," he scolded, but it wasn't cruel or angry. He sounded more sad than anything else. She nodded and rubbed her eyes. She hiccupped as Rowtag gently rubbed her back She pulled her skirts down around her legs. Her hand was balled into a tight fist, clutching the bonnet close to her chest. She heard another voice. The man that had pursued the three had returned. He had not been able to catch them.

He crouched down beside her, gently petting the back of her head. She tried to move away from him. She began to tell him not to touch her when she discovered it was Ahanu crouched down beside her. He did not look sad. He did not look concerned. He looked like he was burning with rage. His eyes were alight with fire, his bare chest rose and fell with deep exhales. He looked… _savage._ His lower lip trembled.

She looked down. His ink blotted skin was stretched taut against bulging muscle. Veins protruded beneath his skin. She raised a hand, pressing the small white hand against the brown skin, gently trailing it along a fat, wide vein that extended from chest, to elbow. She flattened her palm against his bicep. The muscles tensed beneath her fingers. She looked back up. The nostrils of that large, hooked nose flared. Had she seen that face two weeks before, it would have struck terror into the depth of her heart. He looked like a beast of a man in his rage, subhuman, _savage._ It did nothing now but wrap her in a warm blanket of security. This man was capable of extreme violence, blinding rage. She could see it in his eyes. He would not hurt her. He would protect her. Frances was wrong. He wouldn't just move on from her. He didn't want _that._

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pressed her face to his next. His skin was hot. He smelled like smoke and fresh soil. His arms circled around her waist, holding her to him tightly, pressing her small body to his. He was like stone, but hot. He said something to Rowtag and scooped her up in his arms. He carried her with ease. Like she was a sack of flower. He began carrying her along the bank. Rowtag scurried to collect her remaining clothing. She sniffled and took her arm from over Ahanu's shoulder. She took the bonnet and covered her head. She tucked her hair into the fabric, mindful to cover every strand. Once done, she rested her head against his shoulder.

He carried her back home, resting her carefully on the firs outside. He stepped inside the longhouse and came back with a basin of water. Rowtag handed her the clothing she had left behind. Body still trembling, but muscles now returning to normal, she slipped the still damp bodice back on. Ahanu crouched down before her, looking at her with eyes so intense, she could hardly meet his gaze. She expected to be scolded for wandering off, but instead, he said, "What did they look like?"

He did not break his words down, but he spoke slowly, and she understood enough to understand what he asked.

"I… I can't," she said. She knew what they looked like. She could see them in her head, but she did not have the words to explain. "Words… I don't have."

He nodded grimly. He picked up her other petticoat and handed it to her. She put it on over her torn inner layer.

"We have to go tell Powhatan," he said to Rowtag. Once again, he spoke with words she did not know, but was able to get the basic understanding. Rowtag's response she did not understand. The two argued, but it was Ahanu that came out victorious. She rose and extended a hand to Sarah. She took it and he guided her toward the entrance to the home. "Go inside and wait."

"N-No," she answered. She grabbed his wrist.

"Stay here," he said again. He tried to gently extricate himself from her hold.

"You stay," she countered. He raised a hand to her cheek. He watched his thumb stroke her cheek.

"I come back," he promised. Gently, but with force, he nudged her inside. "Go."

She moved into the hut and lay down on the furs spread out on the ground. Ahanu shut the flaps over the door so she would not be seen within. She pressed her face to the furs, running her hands over the soft hairs. She waited impatiently for Ahanu to return. She would not feel secure again until he came back.

* * *

Ahanu did not go straight to Powhatan. He knew better than to bother him over something the Indian King would find quite trivial. The rape had been unsuccessful, and so no harm had been done. She could not describe her attackers. There were far too many people from far too many tribes present to even know how to begin finding them. But just in case she did decide she recognized one of them, he needed someone to know what had happened. He decided, despite the extent to which the man frightened him, to approach Megedagik with the information. Rowtag stepped up behind him, unwilling to come any closer.

Megedagik was seated with his wives, brothers, children, and the Maskaanna. His gaze turned toward Ahanu slowly, a dark glimmer of annoyance flickering within. Aiyana gave him a short glance, but soon looked back to her friend. The Maskaanna looked up at him. Her gaze was nearly as unsettling as Megedagik's.

"Askuweteau," Megedagik greeted loudly. He extended a hand to speak to his group. "The young warrior that took down the three men with their exploding spears."

The men nodded in approval.

"What can I do for you?"

"The yellow-haired-girl was attacked by three young men about a half mile from the village walls," he explained simply. "I saw them only as they fled and she cannot describe them to me. I suspect because of her limited knowledge of our language. I swear to you before the great spirit it happened as I said. Should she come into contact and recognize them, I ask that you might cohobate my assertion."

"I will tell Powhatan you came to me," he agreed.

"Thank you," he answered. He looked back at the Maskaanna. She was staring at him. Unblinking. He moved away from her slowly, turning his back once he was a few feet away.

"You will not tell Samoset?" Rowtag asked. Ahanu looked at him, a deep frown on his face.

"Of course I will," he answered gruffly.

"I was supposed to be watching her –"

"Then you should be held responsible," Ahanu responded. He stopped and turned on him. "You realize what almost happened?"

His voice was taut and drawn out. His limbs were flexing again. The thought of _anyone_ touching her. He turned and stalked off to find Samoset. He wanted to hit something.

"I do, but she kept sleeping and mama – My mother – She told me not to wake her up. I wanted to go to the river and by the time I got back she was gone and –"

"I really don't care," he answered. Rowtag had come jogging up to Ahanu and his friends, frantic and out of breath, asking him if he had seen her. He was able to track her from the hut to the bank in less than twenty minutes. His mind raced as he thought of what might have been. If he had run a bit slower. If Rowtag had discovered her missing just seconds later.

"Wait, wait, wait," Rowtag said. He got in front of Ahanu, keeping him in place. "Samoset is going to punish me, thank you, and then send you on your way."

Ahanu stared at him. Rowtag realized he was not going to speak and began to speak again.

"If you help me out, I'll help you out," Rowtag offered. Ahanu considered him.

"How?"

"I can talk you up? To her. I can help you get access to her. Help you sneak around. At the very least, I won't tell him you're still pursuing her."

Ahanu thought a moment.

"I suppose having an ally could be useful," he mused. "You have to tell him something. She'll still be upset when he returns."

"I will. I will. Thank you!" he breathed happily. "Oh, I would have taken a beating."

Ahanu grabbed him by the front of the shirt and yanked him forward.

"Next time you're given the job of watching her, make sure you watch her, because if anything happens to her, I'll bash your brains in myself. Understand?"

Rowtag nodded, eyes wide and lips parted.

" . I promise."

Ahanu released him. He added, "and if you see her speaking to any other men, come tell me."

"Yeah, I will," he promised. Ahanu gave one last curt nod and brushed past Rowtag. He walked back down to his canoes. Hopefully, he would be able to trade one for something he could bring to Wawetseka to make her feel better.

* * *

The next day, Sarah gathered up the remaining fish in a hurry and set off to walk to the center of town. She had said nothing to Samoset or Talisa about what happened. She was afraid if she did they would no longer allow her to go to the river herself. Rowtag looked across the fire at her most of the night. He said nothing of it. His motives were unclear to her, but she was not too worried about it.

She walked down the little beaten path that lead to the center of town. She heard the same chanting and shrieking from the day before. When she arrived at the center of town, there was a fire outside the hut. Savages sat around the circle. She could see those playing drums. Those singing. Others were listening happily or speaking to one another. A path was left for people to step through and drop off their extra food. She scanned the clearing for Ahanu, but found him missing. She looked for his friends. She could not find them. Even if she had, she did not know if she would have had the courage to approach them.

She moved toward the fire, hoping to drop of the fish so she might continue her search for Ahanu. He had not returned after he went to speak to the Indian King. She bumped into a body that did not veer from its path for her. She stumbled back in surprise. Initially angered that a man would not step to the side of a lady, she remembered it was a savage before her. Not a real man at all. The platter of fish went flying to the ground. The wood platter landed with a noiseless thud. The fish splattered into the dirt. A cry in angry frustration escaped her.

She bent down and began to collect the dusty fish onto the wood tray. The savage bent down but not to help. His fingertip touched her cheek and she stood up abruptly, holding the tray close. He reached forward. His fingers took hold of the white string beneath her chin and tugged. She danced away, but not beyond his reach. He reached out and seized wrist. He was a young man. Strong. He was able to yank her toward him and remove her bonnet with little trouble. He called to someone, laughing, eyes on her head.

"Let go!" she bit out in English. She tried to yank free. He did not, but he did not molest her in any way. He did not further taunt, nor did he look at anything but her hair. He had the same wonder in her eyes that she had the first time she saw a savage. She lashed out and caught him in the cheek. Three long marks were left in her wake, dripping slowly and warmly down his cheek. He reached up in surprise. That surprise very soon turned to rage.

He tossed her down on the ground. She cried out for help. She felt the lashes of a whip, but her layers removed the sting from her punishment. She shrieked, hoping that if someone thought it was more painful than it was, they would come to her aid. No one did, and the light whipping continued.

Finally, someone did come to her aid. She felt the weight of a body covering her. Light, shielding her from the whip. It was a woman. She heard her cry out as the whip collided with her skin. Sarah whipped around beneath the new body, doing what she could to help defend her protector. Aiyana appeared to shove savage away. A man then joined them, shoving him back angrily. Sarah paid no attention.

Her lips parts slowly. Her heart fluttered, building up to a violent burst within her chest. Her open mouth curved upward. She blinked. Her head shook side to side in disbelief.

Alice laughed at her. Her bloody lips curved into a smile of her own. Her chest rose and fell deeply and she brought up a hand to press to Sarah's cheek. They shifted off of each other, but Alice's hands held onto her Sarah's cheeks. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Sarah's. Sarah's eyes closed. Her hands went to Alice's face. She shook her head, tear slipping from her eyes. She laughed through her tears. Alice did the same. They stayed that way until they were torn apart.

* * *

Megedagik stepped toward the mass of people to find Aiyana crouched down before the Maskaanna. The Maskaanna's lip had ripped open again. He now believed it would never heal. She had a red welt on her cheek. For a moment, he believed that Aiyana had struck her. It was not until he was right on top of them that he realized she was checking to make sure she was not too badly hurt. He was unsurprised to find Askuweteau wrestling with another nearby. The yellow-haired-girl was calling to him in butchered words with meanings most likely entirely different than she intended. The Maskaanna was letting Aiyana look her over. In her lap was the hand of the yellow-haired-girl, clutching tightly at her own.

"What happened."

"This beast thought it acceptable to take to beating them," Aiyana replied sharply. She released the Maskaanna's face, but remained on the ground with the two white women. "I could not stop her from coming to her defense. She was at my side and gone in a moment."

Megedagik's lips quivered upward. He was unsurprised once again.

"And why was the yellow-haired-girl being struck?" he asked. The new comer, one of The People of the Pine. The three blank lines on his cheek was a tell-tale sign.

"She attacked me!" he shouted. He finally wrestled himself free from Askuweteau. The new comer pressed his hand to his cheek and held out his hand. Megedagik looked over the gashes on his cheek. Not so deep it was dangerous, but deep enough to be painful.

The young warrior knelt beside the pale girl.

"Liar," Askuweteau accused.

"You saw what happened?" Megedagik asked. He would certainly take the word of his own over an outsider.

"No," Askuweteau answered honestly. "Look at her. You think she's just going to attack a warrior unprovoked?"

"I wanted to see her hair and she attacked me like a rabid animal."

The Maskaanna was helping the yellow-haired-girl put her head covering back on.

"Maskaanna," Megedagik beckoned. He held out a hand to her. She hesitated, but soon placed her pale little hand in his. His fingers engulfed the little white mass and he gently pulled her to her feet. The yellow-haired-girl remained where she was, speaking to Askuweteau. He looked at her grimly. Raising a hand, he pressed his palm to her cheek. His thumb hovered above the slice on her lip.

"You've damaged my ward," he accused the stranger.

"I… I didn't know she was yours," he admitted. "I apologize."

"I bring food," the yellow-haired-girl said, getting to her feet. "I go. He – the fish. Food." She held up her hand and grabbed her own wrist. She pointed to the stranger. "He. Then I –" She tried to remove her wrist from her own grip. She could not. "And he no. I –" she made the motion of her clawing at him. "He –" she made the motion of being thrown down. The whipping.

Megedagik made a motion to her and asked, "is that accurate."

"I will not be struck by a white woman," he replied angrily. The yellow-haired-girl made a motion to Askuweteau. She pointed to the stranger and then drew three imaginary lines on her cheek. Askuweteau's face darkened.

"Was that him?"

"No. No." She shook her head but drew the lines again.

"They need to be spoken to," Askuweteau demanded excitedly. "They're behaving like beasts."

"They're _prisoners,"_ the stranger snapped, then defended himself, "and I did not aim to hurt her. I only meant to look."

"Look somewhere else," Askuweteau challenged him, straightening and turning to face him. Megedagik's eyes closed and he sighed.

"Keep your white whore," the stranger snarled. He opened his eyes as the two began to scuffle once again.

"Stop!" he barked. The two separated immediately. "What are you called?"

"Bodaway," he answered. The two continued to glare at each other.

"Leave, Bodaway."

He immediately turned to leave, and Askuweteau turned furiously. He knew better than to speak.

"I am going to speak to Annawan," he told the boy. "This is a festival of victory and peace. We must not start problems unnecessarily."

"He hit your woman," Askuweteau reminded. Megedagik's hand pulsed into fists. His blood pumped in his veins hard. He did not take that challenge lightly.

He said softly, "Take your girl and go."

Ahanu reached out and took her by the upper arm. Panic etched into her features. She reached out.

"Alice!"

Maskaanna reached out and grabbed onto her hand. She spoke. It was in their tongue, but she actually spoke. She patted the yellow-haired-girl's cheeks. She looked to Megedagik. Finally, Maskaanna released her friend and she stepped away. She walked off with Askuweteau. As she walked away, the girl with the yellow hair glanced over her shoulder as she was led away. The Maskaanna watched her go. She licked the blood from her bottom lip.

_He hit your woman._

Megedagik watched her closely. He regretted his decision. He should have punished the stranger more severely. He should have beaten him proper for darting to damage his woman.

_He hit my woman._

He tore his eyes from the creamy face, the swollen pink lip and the honey hair. Burnt honey.

His gaze instead found Aiyana. She was staring at him. Face blank, lips straight, eyes stone. Her lips pressed together, she gave a tiny shake of her head.

"Maskaanna," she said softly. She touched her arm gently. The Maskaanna, Alice, looked at Aiyana. She began to walk back to their longhouse. Megedagik followed behind.

He was not surprised to see she had gone to the defense of a friend. He was not surprised she would put herself at the end of the whip over another.

He sat outside on the furs. He retrieved his pipe and packed it himself. Aiyana sat down before the Maskaanna and gently dabbed at her bloody lip. Her lips were still pressed tight. The Maskaanna did not flinch as the balm was pressed to her lip but he could see the pain in her eyes.

He raised the pipe to his lips and sucked in deeply. He parted his lips, letting a ring of smoke escape. She looked over at him. He held her gaze. He had learned one thing today, at the very least; She had a very pretty voice.


	11. XI

XI

Alice hardly slept that night. She could think of nothing but finding Sarah again. Her heart soared when she thought of her. To have a friend in this miserable place. A companion to her misery. But all at once that soaring turned to impressive misery, all-consuming confusion.

Why was she here? Her blond hair and eyes might have made her a prize to many of these dark skinned savages. A coincidence that they should arrive at the same village, held captive by their savage abductors? It seemed unlikely. These people scattered the country side. Any number of them might have seen her.

Oh, poor Sarah. Did her family live? Had she been accosted? These thoughts consumed Alice throughout the night. Even her tea would not help her find rest. She lay in her furs, utterly exhausted, but mind racing.

She waited until she heard the first birds chirping before she slipped from her furs and slunk passed the sleeping Indians. Chilaili slept to the side, Megedagik and Aiyana's limbs entangled in sleep.

The sky was still dark as she slipped from the longhouse. She sat out by the unlit fire for some time, wrapped securely in the bear pelt she had taken from Kesegowase. She waited until the sky turned pink before returning to the longhouse and carefully folding her items into the corner. She slipped out before Chilaili could wake. She looked to be sleeping quite peacefully.

She walked in the direction Sarah had instructed. She smiled when she saw her seated by an unlit fire of her own, sitting in her dirty, tattered dress. She would have to ask Megedagik to force her captives to provide her with an adequate dress.

Sarah's face lit up as she saw Alice approach and she popped up to her feet. The two embraced warmly, squeezing tightly.

Without a word, Alice took Sarah by the hand and lead her down the pathway, out of the village walls, and settled them in her favorite spot. Chilaili would find them eventually, when she came to collect her daily herbs.

The sun was not yet creeping up over the trees, but she could already see the bustle below. Boats going out to fish. Women leaving their homes to bathe. Children heading out to swim and play.

"Oh, Alice, thank the lord you survive," Sarah breathed as they sat, throwing out her arms and catching her in another warm embrace. A deep frown settled over Alice's face and she extricated herself from her friend's grasp. Her fingers pressed into Sarah's shoulders as she examined her face closely, the tiniest of shakes moving Alice's face side to side.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "And, and Sarah, however did you come to this place?"

Horrified sadness graced Sarah's face. Her lips parted and her face sagged.

"You don't know?" she asked softly, voice just above a whisper.

"Know what, Sarah?" she replied. "I've been here this whole time, I know nothing."

"They…" Sarah lowered her gaze. She gave a tiny shake of the head and then looked up. Her eyes were wet. "They killed everyone, Alice. They came and… It was a massacre."

"All of Wolstenholme Town?" she asked in horror. She was unsure what to feel. Lawrence. Poor Lawrence…

"All of the colony," was Sarah's response. Alice felt numb. She licked her lips and looked down at the valley. Watched the children happily splashing away at the banks, waiting for the sun to grow warm enough. Her ears buzzed.

"Then… Lawrence does not live," she murmured. She closed her eyes and turned her face up toward the sun.

"And…" Sarah's voice was small. "And little William?"

"He is with his sister now," she answered.

She burst into tears. Quickly, she was wrapped in Sarah's arms. Yesterday, it was Alice to comfort Sarah. Today it was Sarah to comfort Alice. She sobbed against her friend's bosom, leaning into the soft warmth, relishing in the comforting rocking of a friendly, warm body. Sarah petted her hair gently, pressed her cheek to the top of Alice's head.

"I am so sorry, Alice," Sarah whispered. Her words were choked. Alice soon felt something hot and wet on her forehead. Some time passed. The sun was up. She could hear children playing below. It was warm enough now. They were splashing in the water.

"How many of us are there?" she finally asked. She played with the fray at the bottom of Sarah's apron. She wondered what had become of her dress.

"I do not know for sure. Twenty maybe? Less… more. I cannot recall. Most have gone to other villages. Only Frances and two others remain here. And us…"

"Your –" _Parents,_ she was going to say. She did not. She knew. She said instead, "Why?"

"If only we knew," Sarah murmured. "I've a theory."

Alice could not help but laugh softly. Sadly and weakly.

"Do you?"

"Some have been kind to me. Many have not. In many ways, they are kind, but savage still. I think they feel differently than normal humans. Like those from the dark continent. I think they do not even understand their crime."

Alice thought of her captors. She remembered those dark eyes. That vicious snarl. A beast perhaps, but he understood what he was doing when he turned that hammer on her child's soft skull.

And Kesegowase. Megedagik. Those that pretended to _protect_ her. _Care_ for her. The gifts from the others… murderers all. Savage. Animal.

"Sarah?" she spoke softly.

"Mmhh?" she murmured in response.

"You need to get rid of this dress."

"But I – "

"No," Alice replied. "This is filthy."

"I did not wish to get rid of it," she said softly. Alice straightened up and looked at Sarah. Sarah let her hands drop to her lap. "It's… it's part of home."

Alice tried to smile.

"Keep it, but wear something else. Home will never leave us. Never will we become them, but you cannot wear this."

Sarah sighed. It was her turn to lean against Alice. They both looked out to the sun.

"Is it really so bad?" Sarah finally asked.

"Oh… Sarah…" Alice replied. Both girls laughed together. Because if you don't laugh, you cry.

* * *

When he was rudely awoken the next morning, the Maskaanna was gone. Chilaili shook him in utter hysterics, lamenting the loss as if she were lost to them forever. Aiyana rolled from his arms with a grumble and prepared to go to work. It would be a short morning for her. The fields were almost ready, and the celebration was about to begin.

"Hush, woman," he grumbled. He pushed himself to his feet and looked to the Maskaanna's corner. It was empty, his bear pelt folded neatly. She kept her space very clean. Her gifts from the tribes were stacked neatly. Occasionally she would pull them out to look at. She always put them back and put them in a careful order.

He retrieved a blanket and draped it across his shoulders as he headed out into the morning. It was cool, the sun had just begun to climb out into the sky. It would be a warm day. Spring was almost here.

Chilaili followed, lamenting dramatically, cursing herself for her foolishness in losing the Maskaanna. His lesser wife considered herself the white woman's keeper, despite no one granting her with that responsibility.

He found Ahanu bathing at the river outside the walls, not far from his reclusive little home. The boy preferred to live alone, outside the walls in a home built for one. It would fit a woman, a child or two, but was small.

Chilaili smiled at Ahanu, eyes moving over the young man's lean muscle and decorated skin. He stepped from the water and stepped into his breechcloth.

"Where does the yellow-haired-girl go?" He asked. Ahanu frowned.

"Go?"

"The Maskaanna is gone. I would bet anything she is with the pale one."

"This early she'd be heading to the fields, then to the river. I'm not allowed at Samoset's fire. I don't know much more. Those are the places I visit her."

Megedagik nodded and turned to leave. Ahanu jogged behind him, pulling a shirt back over his head.

"Did you speak to Anawan?"

"No yet," he answered curtly. Ahanu did not leave. He was persistent.

"When will you?"

"When the time is right."

"When will the time be right?" he pushed. A flair of anger flickered within Megedagik's chest.

"Askuweteau, I appreciate that you care for the girl, but to weaken ties to those just brought into the confederacy for the sake of a failed attempt to force attentions on a white woman is not a major concern right now."

"What better time now that we have peace from the white invaders? What could it threaten?" he pressed.

Megedagik stopped. He bit back a sigh. Askuweteau stopped as well and ventured, "please understand, not all are as secure in their safety as the Maskaanna. No one dare raise a hand to her, those that know who she is, the others do not share that luxury."

Megedagik looked at him. The boy was in earnest, and Megedagik could not say with certainty he was not correct. He remembered the events from the day before.

_He hit your woman._

"I will have Powhatan remind our guests that they aren't to be harmed," he vowed.

"Thank you."

Megedagik did not find them at the fields; he did not find them at Samoset's fire. Aiyana said she never showed up; Talisa had said she had left for the fields early.

He feared some sort of ill-conceived escape attempt. She would be returned to them, and he would have to correct the deviant behavior. He did not wish to do so.

Ahanu took him down a trail to the river where many women did their washing. He did not find the white women there.

"You don't think they ran?" Ahanu asked. There was panic in the boy's voice. His intentions, Megedagik knew very well, were far from pure, he had one thing on his mind, but the panic in his voice demonstrated a genuine concern.

"I do not believe the Maskaanna so foolish. Nor rash," he considered. "She strikes me as pragmatic."

"Then where might they be?"

"Chilaili?" Megedagik asked. "Where do you bring her in the morning."

She lead them along the trail. They were found at the top of the highest ledge, looking out at the sunrise and the fishermen below. A yellow head rested on the Maskaanna, a loving arm wrapped around the younger's shoulders.

Amongst the chirping birds were the sound of sniffles, sad laughter, and a few soft words.

"Maskaanna."

The two girls turned. The pale one got to her feet. The Maskaanna took her hand but remained seated. Her face was stony.

"We come, away, talk, I - fields later - late but I do work."

"You are not in trouble," Megedagik told her. The girl nodded. "Time will be set aside for the two of you to converse, but you must not leave unsupervised. It is dangerous."

"Bad, Wawetseka, come so far alone," Ahanu put more simply.

"Alone," she responded. "Alice and Sarah. Want alone be."

"No," Megedagik said simply. The pale one, Wawetseka to Ahanu, Sarah to the whites, looked surprised. The Maskaanna's eyes narrowed. Slowly she rose to her feet, proud and graceful. Her shoulders were straight and her chin lifted. When she spoke, it was strong and clear, but in a tongue he did not know. He felt a stab of anger at the insolence. This was far worse than the amusing little stare downs. This was anything but amusing.

"Chilaili, bring the Maskaanna back home," he ordered slowly, eyes pinned on hers. "Askuweteau, bring Sarah to the fields."

"Megedagik," he deferred and reached for Sarah's arm. She hesitated, but allowed herself to be pulled away from the Maskaanna. The pale one spoke to the Maskaanna, but it did nothing to soothe the woman. This sudden defiance confused him greatly.

Chilaili approached her but she nudged her away. Megedagik took a few measured steps forward. He stopped before her. She continued to glare. Her fragile, pale hands were balled into fists at her side. This would not do.

"Maskaanna -"

He hardly got her name out before her hand collided hard with his jaw. There was the sound of smacking skin. He was stunned into silence. He turned his head to the side. Askuweteau and pale Sarah were gone. Only Chilaili saw the strike, but it was enough to boil his blood.

She took his lack of reaction as an invitation to hit him again. The second strike stung. It hit him squarely on the cheek. A third strike followed directly afterward.

He reared back an arm, ready to land a vicious blow to the woman before him, but his elbow did not unbend and he did not bring down the back of his hand to her flushed cheek.

She fell back as if he had, lips open with surprise, eyes wide with fear. She looked up at him from her place on the ground. He kept his hand up. His eyes burned.

"Never. Again."

Her eyes glimmered with understanding. Whatever had spurred on this little revolt was momentarily forgotten. He bent down and seized her by the arm. She was light as air when he yanked her upward. She still had fear in her gaze when he released her. He made sure to give her one last hard look before he turned away.

"Bring her home, Chilaili, and make sure she does not leave again," he ordered as he stalked away.

"M-Maskaanna?" he heard Chilaili say timidly. Nothing more was said, and the Maskaanna followed, obedient once more.

* * *

Ahanu smiled as he dropped Wawetseka off at the fields. She turned, eyes red and puffy from crying, but she smiled. Her blue eyes were pretty when wet, but he would rather she never have a need to have tears in her eyes.

"You come back?" she asked. He looked to the sun.

"Maybe."

"After… when I go. You find me?"

His smile widened slightly.

"I will," he promised.

"You bring me to Alice?" she asked.

His smile slipped slightly. Alice. The Maskaanna.

"I will," he vowed. She smiled.

"Thank you," she answered. She returned to the fields and he watched her go.

As he waited for the sun to climb through the sky to the point he need return for her, he minded himself again and again, scraping the log frantically, sweat dripping over his bare chest, _The Maskaanna cannot hunt for her. She cannot fight for her. She cannot protect her. She still needs me._

He was heartened when she came toward him when he returned for her, a bright smile on her lips. He presented his canteen to her, as well as a small bowl of venison he had cooked. They walked along the trail silently. He tried to think of what he might say to her, but could think of nothing. She was chewing happily, but once finished, she looked to him as they walked.

"Alice?" she said. "Alice, my friend. My home." He jabbed at the air. "Her home." She jabbed at another spot. "Town." She jabbed one last time. "We walk."

He nodded.

"You help bring water?" she asked. "And go water. Wash."

She held up her apron and showed him the dirt on the fraying ends. His lips twitched.

"I go," he agreed. Perhaps she might take off more than her apron.

They arrived at Samoset's longhouse, but he knew they would not be there. Samoset was with elders from the other village, Talisa would be with Powhatan. She ran into the home to collect the water bucket and then hurried out to meet him. Together they walked down the trail and toward the water.

"Alice," Wawetseka said as they got out of the walls. "Say… um… this…" she pinched her dress. "Is bad. Soil."

"It is dirty," he agreed. She sighed deeply. She looked at her dress. "I will bring you a skin."

She looked at him with a tiny frown. Her eyes were vivid and bright, so very beautiful.

"I bring you pelt. I will tan it. You make dress," he said. She shook her head. Clearly, she did not understand. He would find her something nice. Something light, too match her paleness. She kept speaking about Alice as they moved down to the river. She spoke fast, used words that did not have the meaning she clearly believed they had, but he got the general idea. She admired Alice. She loved Alice. She was excited to see Alice alive and well and in the village. He felt a sting of jealously as she continued to speak. She kneeled down at the bank and removed her apron. She removed her bonnet, the cleanest of all her clothing by far. He looked over her hair with a smile.

"You should not wear that," he told her. She looked over at him, still scrubbing the fabric. "You should not wear it."

He put a hand flat on the back of her head. The hair was so soft. He would never tire of looking it.

"No," she shook her head. "People… laugh…"

" _I_ don't," he smiled.

"Keep covered. Because…" she shook her head. She did not know the words.

He took a strand of hair between his fingers. He twirled it. She blushed and reached up to knock his hand away gently. It was gentle. Not forceful. Flirtatious resistance. The type women gave to appear coy and more desirable. It wasn't real.

His smile widened. He was content to just watch her.

He no longer felt so worried. There was still a lot he could provide that dear Alice could not.

* * *

Milap walked back through the village walls with a fat squirrel hanging on his hip. It had taken him most of the day to catch. He did not like to hunt. He was not good at it. But Salali did not like fish and he hoped to make her smile. She had been sad the past few nights. Rowtag knew what was going on. Milap could tell by the look he kept giving the pale girl.

He ventured through the town, careful to avoid his friends. Kitchi was a fine hunter already. Milap would never hear the end of it. He was half way home when he heard a shout toward him from a nearby fire. He turned his head to find three People of the Line seated there, three black lines down their cheeks.

"Me?" he stopped and asked.

"Isn't that your name?"

Milap colored and stepped forward. He tried to push the squirrel out of sight.

"You live with the pale one?"

"Salali?" He asked. The three stared back blankly. "Yeah, I do."

The one in the middle smiled. He was seated on the ground, elbows resting on his bent knees.

"Does she do any chores alone?" he asked.

"Yeah - why?" He asked, frowning.

"We just want to play a joke on her. Harmless but... people around here are so sensitive about a white man's feelings."

Milap felt a tug of reluctance in his chest, a small hint of foreboding.

"She... her entire family is dead," Milap hesitated. "Why don't you -"

"My whole family is dead too," the youth shrugged. He jabbed a small twig at him. "Your people did that." He then shrugged and added dismissively. "It's just a joke. I didn't know you people cared so much for white men."

"I _don't_ ," Milap seethed.

"Then what harm is a little joke?"

"She really only goes to the river alone," Milap proved his distaste for the white invaders. "But sometimes Askuweteau is with her. He's usually always around her, unless he's hunting."

"I'm guessing he wouldn't approve of a..." he looked at his friend and smiled. "Joke."

The two others laughed. Milap smiled with them, not entirely sure what was so funny.

"No, definitely not," he laughed.

"Alright, thanks friend. Come around to the southern clearing later. You can be on our team."

Milap's face lit up happily.

"Yeah, yeah definitely," he responded. They smiled.

"Good. See you there."

"Yeah, yeah, see you there," Milap said as he left. The People of the Pine were a fierce group, but their numbers small, and since their induction into the confederacy, smaller still. Powhatan had all but wiped them out after their second uprising.

He arrived back at the fire and plopped down. Salali had not yet returned. He set about skinning the squirrel. He'd have it cooked for her return. That would make her smile.

He ignored the little gnawing in his stomach. A joke never hurt anyone anyway.

* * *

Megedagik did not know what was said between the two women that brought about this new attitude from the Maskaanna, but he was decidedly displeased by it. He had spared her the beating she had earned, and yet she still sat their glumly as his guests spoke, feasting on the fine meal he had provided them. The abundance of food should impress a woman; He had single handedly provided the bounty for his family, yet she sat there unappreciative, glaring at the food before her. Even his little boy received little attention. She was far from mean to him. He could not even say she was curt or cold to his son, but she was far less responsive than she had been previously.

He poured himself a hot cup of tea, half listening to Donehogowa speak. His eyes once again went to the Maskaanna. She sat with her eyes focused on the ground. Despite the relative warmth, even so late in the day, she wrapped his bear pelt around her securely. He rose. Others looked to him, but Donehogawa did not stop speaking. He moved to the Maskaanna, holding his cup of tea out to her. A gesture of good faith, of friendship, an attempt to show her he was willing he was willing to forgive her earlier transgression.

She looked at the tea cup, looked up to him, and in an act that did not just surprise him, but truly shocked him, she reached out and slapped the cup from his hand. The hot water went flying. The cup ricocheted against the pot above the fire. Everyone fell silent, even Donehogowa.

He saw the realization on her face in an instant. Her eyes flickered around the fire. He had spared her earlier due to her good sense to rebel in private. This was too egregious an insult to forgive without recompense.

"Don't hurt her!" he heard Chilaili plea meekly. He bent down and seized her. She cried out in surprise and terror as he ripped the bear pelt from her. He dragged her toward the longhouse with a bruising grip. She whimpered in pain and tried to break free, but her attempts were futile.

He brushed the flap aside with a furious brush of his arm and let it fall back behind him. He threw her down on the furs harder than he intended. He was on top of her before she had time to react. She fought, but were he not so angry, he might have been amused by the ease in which he subdued her. His hand closed around her wrists with ease. He pinned the pale little wrists to the ground above her head and she cried out before he even struck her. It did not cross his mind that she feared more than a simple thrashing.

He reached over, fumbling through his belongings until he acquired the rope. He folded it, wound it up, and then snapped it against her legs. She tried to remain stoic, unwilling to show her pain, but it only added to it. His blows grew stronger with each strike. He would not be satisfied until he heard her cry out. He did not want her pain. He wanted her submission. If she was not willing to give that to him, he would take it. A groan escaped her, breaking through clenched teeth.

Unsatisfied. He reached down. He grabbed the bottom of her skirt and ripped it upward. It was upon the revealing of her creamy thighs that she began to scream, and he brought the belt down once again. Blood gushed through his violently pumping heart. His muscles flexed as though he were in battle. He'd not felt like this in a long time.

He finally relented. His chest heaved and he watched the red stripes form upon her pale skin. She twisted her hips, moving onto her back. She tried to wiggle her hips and push her dress back down. He reached down, pressing a hand to the red, elevated skin of her thigh.

The skin was hot, scalding. He swallowed but his throat was dry. His hand flattened against the skin of her thigh. Her breath hitched. The skin quivered beneath his touch. Fingertips pressed into the reddening skin. He watched his fingers indent the soft flesh of her bare thigh. His hand pushed onward, wrist pressing against the bottom of her dress. More of her thigh was revealed.

She remained pinned to the spot, wide eyes wet with fear, lips parted, breasts rising and falling. He shifted. The room was hot, but no fire burned. He leaned forward, hovering over her. Her eyes followed. Her throat moved as she swallowed. He wished he was settled between her legs, but they were pressed together tightly beside him.

His face got closer to hers. His fingers pressed between her legs just above the knee. Her thighs pressed together hard. A whimper left her. A beautiful sound. His fingers sank deeper between the burning legs, gripping a thigh firmly. Slowly, despite her resistance, his hand moved upward.

He leaned down further. His eyes scanned her face. His lips hovered over hers. Her breath smelled of the mint she enjoyed to mix into her tea. Little hot bursts of air against his mouth. He felt lightning dancing across the skin of his lips, connecting him to her, though they did not touch.

His mouth pressed down on hers firmly. Air rushed from her nostrils. Their noses pressed together. He could feel the cut on her lips against his. He enjoyed the kiss. Aiyana never cross his mind. He thought only of the soft touch of her lips, the creaminess of her skin, and the sweet smell of her hair. The kiss ended far too soon and he pulled back with his knife pressed to her throat. He squeezed the hard handle, lamenting the loss of her soft curves.

"Never. Strike me. Again." He whispered it against her face. She tried to regulate her breathing to prevent the blade from pressing into her soft flesh. She spoke to him, her own voice a soft murmur. He heard the tremble in her voice. He knew the sound of an apology. No language barrier could keep that hidden. He breathed in deeply. He moved the blade to press to her cheek. His head ducked down involuntarily, but he caught himself. He spoke against her mouth softly, "Never. Again."

Her eyes fluttered open and she nodded. His eyes fell downward. The fragility of her neck. It was amazing that she had survived.

He shoved the flap out of his way once again.

"Go clean her up," he told Chilaili, sitting back down beside Aiyana. Chilaili scurried back into the longhouse. Aiyana pressed a hand to his neck, pulling him closer. A soft kiss was placed to his temple. She was smiling as she did. He could feel the curve of her lips. No one said a word, and he looked as calm as one could be, but beneath his cool exterior, his blood boiled, pulsing through his veins with violent thrusts. His heart pounded in his ears and bubbling up within him was a hot and unyielding want.


	12. Chapter 12

XII

The celebration was imminent and excitement buzzed in everyone's bones. Food was ready, everyone was present, the weather was growing warm. A wonderful time to start off the new season with a victorious celebration amongst family. But the rain had started and Powhatan decided the next clear day they would begin.

Everyone was confined to their homes. Not by mandate of course, but no one wished to venture outside into the pouring rain. Megedagik sat with his wives, his children, and the Maskaanna around a crackling fire. The light was needed, but it was too warm for Megedagik's liking. The women and the children seemed quite comfortable.

His daughter was leaning up against him, playing with his earrings as she chattered on about a girl in her village that she had made friends with. She had not been able to make the journey. She had a clubbed foot.

His son was seated in front of the Maskaanna, silently letting her pull a comb through his wet hair. He had run out to retrieve some tea from Donehogawa during the break in the rain. It seemed almost the moment he stepped outside the heavens opened and rain back rocketing back to earth, drenching the little boy to the bone. He finished his task, but the Maskaanna was deeply disturbed he had been allowed to leave. She added another log to the fire, removed all but the boy's breechcloth, and warmed him in the bear pelt.

Ahote obeyed without any protest, and once she was pleased he was warned again, took a comb and began to brush through his hair. His thick, wet hair was slicked back, and Megedagik observed his son proudly. He could see him grown, head shaved, a mighty warrior. If he grew out of his clumsiness. Donehogawa assured him he could.

The Maskaanna smoothed a hand through his thick hair, gazed at the top of his head sadly, and with a little sigh, released the boy. He turned, nestled in the bear fur, and began chattering to Maskaanna. She listened, but Megedagik had no idea how much she actually understood. She was obviously intelligent. She would learn their tongue quickly if she wished. She simply didn't wish to.

Her eyes fluttered up to Megedagik but almost immediately she looked back down and began fussing with a jar of leaves she had been crushing into paste before Ahote had returned soaked to the bone. Two days had passed since her beating. They had not spoken directly, save a few orders for tea, but she was obedient once again. She rarely met his gaze anymore, and admittedly, he missed their staring contests.

"Ahote," she mumbled softly, reaching out and placing a small white hand to a smaller brown wrist. The little boy looked up in surprise and ceased his fussing with the pots. She returned to her task.

"Aaaalice," he said. He was working very hard to speak her name correctly.

 _Alice_. Megedagik was not sure he liked the name.

"Papa," his daughter said softly. He turned his head to look at her and smiled at her. "Can we eat now?"

He looked to the fire and realized nothing was being made. He looked to the Maskaanna, ready to order her to prepare something. She was watching his son show off with jumping jacks.

"Alice watch. Watch Alice. Alice do you see?"

"Aiyana," he said instead. She looked over at him lazily. She hated the rain. She needed something to do, but he knew before he spoke, she would be displeased with the task he was about to give her. "Prepare something."

Her brow furrowed.

"Why can't they?" she asked.

"They are busy," he answered. "You are not."

She put up no further protest and began to prepare a slab of meat. His attention was drawn toward the white woman in the corner as she pressed her hands together repeatedly, small, tiny claps, a smile on her lips, eyes still so very sad.

Ahote fell to the furs, spreading out on the furs and breathing heavily, cheeks flushed red. Maskaanna leaned over and gently patted his chest. She said something in her tongue. He said something back, shockingly in her tongue. Her smile widened. It was wiped from her face the moment he barked "no!"

Ahote looked over with wide eyes.

"You do not speak her tongue," he ordered the little boy. Ahote's brow furrowed.

"I like her words."

"No."

He saw the temper tantrum coming on and was ready to thoroughly scold the boy. He was too sensitive. He was too weak. He had to make him strong.

White hands touched Ahote's slender shoulders and settled him down on the fur. He looked to her and spoke again. She shook her head.

"Be quiet," she said simply but with surprising clarity. She looked over to Megedagik. His lips curved. So she knew more than she would like to pretend. She held his gaze for a few moments.

"You will not teach the boy your language," he informed her. She dropped her gaze and touched Ahote's head. She brushed his hair back and then went back to her paste. The boy was not finished.

He crossed his arms across his chest, a terrible pout on his face, and he glared at Megedagik. Megedagik stared back, disliking the insolence. He did not blame the Maskaanna. He had come to him like this. He would need to discuss the problem with Donehogawa. He considered giving the boy a beating, but the Maskaanna reached out and, with surprising force, flicked the little boy's cheek. Ahote looked over with surprise, holding his cheek. She spoke to him, defiantly in her tongue, but the message was clear in any language. Don't pout.

The boy huffed and crossed his arms. Maskaanna beckoned him closer and had him lie down beside her. He nestled into the blankets and she stroked his hair for a few moments. He closed his eyes and immediately succumbed to a much needed nap.

The Maskaanna glanced up to him again and looked back to her paste. He felt a familiar desire bubbling up in his chest as he watched her work. His gaze was taken from her as Aiyana finished preparing the food and took his face in her hands. She smiled and placed a kiss to his lips. He said nothing as she settled back down beside him, her head wresting a top his knee, and he began to listen to his daughter once more time.

* * *

Early in the morning Alice was shaken awake by an excited little boy with hushed, anxious whispers. A smile came to her face, a warmth took hold of her heart. It was with terrible sadness that opened her eyes and found a dark headed little boy with dark brown eyes staring back.

She sat up with sleepily and glanced over at her sleeping companions. They were still sleeping peacefully. Aiyana shifted in Megedagik's arms but went back to sleep.

"Hush, child," she murmured and collected her bear pelt. "Come now."

She left the hut with him. The air was cool but fresh, crisp. Birds chirped happily. Children played in the distance. Ahote tried to pull her away and down the path but she stopped him, sat him down, and fed him breakfast.

"Fish. Fish. Fish," he mumbled happily, almost dancing in his place as he nibbled. She smiled at him as she began boiling some water. "Fish. fish."

She smiled at him but stopped him as he stood up. "No, no," she said gently. "All of it."

He sat back down and began to eat. He was not pleased but he did not protest. Alice made him a cup of tea and, once cool enough, put it into his hands. She laughed softly as he sucked it down, tea dribbling down his chin and over his chest. She cleaned him off and then followed him to his destination.

They ended up in a field where a number of games were being played. The children took up a smaller amount of space, but played more games. She had a feeling more people would be arriving as the day grew older.

She settled down at the spot Ahote indicated and then he ran off into the field. He got a stick from another little boy and took to playing. Ahote would pause occasionally to make sure she was watching. Every time he turned to check, her heart softened toward him further.

After the realization from Sarah a few days earlier, she had hoped to hate them, all of them, but she had looked into his eyes two days before, and found absolutely nothing there she could hate. She felt not an ounce of it in her body for him.

He ran over after an hour or so and sat down beside her. His shoulders heaved and he was covered with a light sheen of sweat. He chattered on happily. She congratulated as best she could.

"Fish?"

Ever the mother, she pulled out some snacks and handed them over.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "Thank you?"

"Thank you," she said in English. He did his best to repeat it. He finished eating and handed back what he didn't want. She took it back and he ran back to the game. More and more people were arriving at the field. The game of adults was growing larger and louder. She was content to sit and watch the children. She enjoyed the cool breeze and the warming sun most of the morning.

"Maskaanna," Megedagik said from behind her. People were beginning to fill the edges of the field. Her eyes left the field. She waited for instruction. He only pointed into the field. He spoke to her. Explaining the rules perhaps, but all she ended up getting out of the one-sided conversation was what team to root for. He handed her his cup of tea. He indicated he meant for her to drink it. She took a sip and then handed it back.

He continued to speak with his companions. They looked to be men and women of importance. They were the more highly decorate of the savages. Shaved heads and roached hair, some with permanent discoloration of their skin; copper flesh was turned red, blue or black. Other's had special pain on their bodies. All were of high stature, lean bodied, and looked to me quite adept at killing. She wondered where Aiyana was. Where Chilaili was.

Ahote could not decide where he wanted to sit. He kept running back and forth. He would disappear for fifteen minutes, return, and then disappear for an hour. The team those around her were rooting for were doing quite well, it appeared to be some sort of tournament. The savage that was always following Sarah around was playing. The sport was almost barbaric. They would walk each other with sticks, slam into each other and knock each other to the ground.

"Maskaanna," another male savage said as the day progressed. He extended a tray of food toward her. She accepted with apparent gratitude. She had trouble finding joy amongst these people. She forced a smile, fearful disrespect would result in another whipping. Lawrence had never raised a hand to her, but he had never had a need to. She could not fully say he would not have. In truth, it was what occurred _after_ the whipping. Sometimes her thighs would still tremble; she could feel the warmth of his hand sliding up her inner thigh, his lips on hers. She took a single berry, but the moment it touched her lips she was reaching for another. There was an abundance of food before them. She'd never seen so much food. Not in England. Not at Wolstenholme Town.

She scanned around the edges of the field, hoping to find Sarah. She searched most of the morning, thinking it would be easy to find a blonde head amongst dark bodies, but it was harder than she had thought. She found her by following the savage with the body markings across the field. He would pause occasionally and go to the side line. His head would turn often. Every time, his gaze lead her in a single direction Eventually, she found Sarah, head covered with her bonnet, sitting amongst a large group of savages.

"Megedagik?" she asked once she found her. He finished the conversation he was in the middle of before giving her his attention. "Sarah?"

She pointed in her direction. He waved a hand.

"Later."

Please?" she asked.

"Later."

She did not protest. Less than an hour later there was a break in the game and she was given leave to go find Sarah. She got to her feet and circled the field until she arrived at Sarah's group. They were eating and she was looking toward her savage. The others noticed her first and it was not until Alice knelt beside Sarah and touched her arm that Sarah became aware of her presence. She smiled happily and wrapped her arms around Sarah.

"Maskaanna," someone said. The two girls untangled their arms from each other. It was a young man. He came forward on her knees and presented a platter of fish to her. She accepted a piece and thanked him with a nod. He moved away, but he smiled stupidly at her.

"What does it mean?" she asked Sarah. Sarah considered a moment and hugged her knees to her chest. She was still in that tattered dress.

"Ahnna means mother, I know," she answered. "I don't know what Maska means. I do not know what the words mean together… if it isn't it's own word all together. I am sure it is better than my name. Milap calls me Silali. It means _squirrel."_

She glared at a young man she assumed was Milap. He looked to be a few years younger than Sarah. He stared back with a frown of his own.

"I think that… oh um…" Sarah looked over her shoulder. "I think someone is here to see you."

Alice turned to find Ahote a few feet away, waiting nervously. She smiled and held out a hand.

"Megedagik's son," she answered. "William's age."

The boy came closer and wrapped his arms around her neck. He hung on her and whispered in her ear so no one else would hear. Alice listened, though she did not know a word.

"I cannot understand you, sweetie," she answered, patting his arm gently. He picked at a stray string on her dress and looked toward Sarah. The little boy tugged at Alice's hair and said, "hair" in his tongue. Alice smiled and looked at Sarah. "He wants to see your hair." She looked at Ahote. "Hair," she said in his language. He nodded and then glanced back at Sarah.

"I, I, I don't want to take it off," she said.

"Sarah –"

"They stare at me. So many laugh. Only Ahanu is kind to me."

"Do you think Ahote will be cruel?" she asked. Sarah bit her lip, considered the child, and then tugged at the string of her bonnet. She removed it and placed it to the side. Alice gently coaxed Ahote toward Sarah. The rather outgoing child was suddenly shy and clung to Alice. It occurred to her that he was scared of Sarah. Alice patted his stomach and spoke to him. She looked in the direction of Megedagik. She could see him across the field, still seated on his blankets.

"It's ok," Sarah smiled. She held out a hand and Ahote moved forward. He glanced toward the other Indians and then left Alice. He touched Sarah's hair gently. He giggled and looked back at Alice. That this little child would grow up to be a savage killer saddened her. He moved back to Alice.

"Fish?" he asked Alice.

"Oh…" she looked to Sarah. "Do you think he could have some?"

"Please," Sarah sighed. "All I eat is fish. Take it all."

"Ask nicely," Alice instructed. Ahote reached for the platter and Alice pulled his hair back. "Ask. Nicely."

He blinked, realized what she wanted, and spoke to the group. It was an older woman that answered. She spoke to Alice. Sarah translated.

"Um. She is… happy I think, that you're here. She – something about Megedagik."

"Thank you," Alice answered in their tongue. Ahote settled himself in Alice's lap. He leaned back, clearly exhausted. Alice looked to the shut, considered he might need to get out of the sun before he burned, and then looked to his skin, a wry smile on her lips.

"He is motherless?" Sarah asked.

"I don't know," Alice answered honestly. "He arrived with the rest. I only just gathered he was Megedagik's, and it is truly a guess. He arrived with another family."

"He likes you."

"Aiyana pays him no mind and I do not think Chilaili knows how to care for a child." Ahote looked at her when she said their names but settled back. He began to fuss.

"Shh, shh," she comforted. When he continued to fuss, she was firmer. He pouted but settled back down. "He's a good boy," she told Sarah. "But he tries to get his way through pouting."

"He is cute," Sarah responded. "Poor little William."

Alice felt a cavern open up in her heart. Sometimes she could steel herself to the pain. Other times it was crippling. She stroked Ahote's hair tenderly. He shifted but only snuggled closer. He was clearly tired. He should be put down for a nap. She did not think that the savages had such a concept.

"Have you seen a man without an eye?" Alice asked. "Injured or missing…"

She could remember little else about what he looked like, but she remembered jabbing her thumb into his eye socket. It was not possible that he walked away unscathed. Sarah shook her head.

"No, no one," she answered.

"He stopped me," Alice mused softly. "I could have killed him. I had the hammer over my head I was going to kill him and he stopped me."

"Who?"

"Kesegowase," she answered. The name drew a few gazes from Sarah's companions. Sarah frowned.

"You mean Megedagik?"

"No. Kesegowase. He was the one that took me."

Sarah looked unconvinced.

"I don't think so," she answered. "I was awake. I saw you, but your face, I couldn't know for sure. But it was Megedagik."

"But Kesegowase –"

"Does not have a pierced nose," Sarah said more firmly. "The man that brought you back had a piercing. Here."

She touched the bottom of her nose. Alice touched Ahote's brow. William's age. It made sense. Alice let out a sigh. She looked toward the game. She needed a nap of her own.

"And this Ahanu?" Alice asked. A man's eyes were suddenly on them, hard and unfriendly. Alice met his eye and held eye contact until she was satisfied.

"He takes care of me," Sarah answered. "Brings me food and keeps others from attacking me."

"Just… be mindful," Alice said cautiously. She looked toward the man. He was playing the game, but every time he turned to run in their direction, his gaze went to Sarah.

"He took care of me on the trail when I had no one else," Sarah answered. "He is my friend."

"Sarah –"

"Maskaanna."

Alice looked to one of the savages on their furs. He leaned forward as he began to speak. He was an older man. He had wide set eyes and a large nose. Alice listened and then looked to Sarah. Sarah frowned as she struggled to discern what it was he meant.

"Um… he wants you to repeat… or say again what…" she nibbled on her lower lip. Ahote began to speak to the man. He swung his arms around excitedly before pushing himself up to his feet. She watched him as he pretended to swing a club. It took Alice a moment to realize he was reenacting the death of her child. Alice let rush of air leave her lungs before she reached out and halted Ahote. He tried to resist but she said very firmly, "No."

He paused and lowered his hands. Alice pushed herself up to her own feet.

"Alice, please don't go," Sarah begged. She jumped up to her own feet.

"I am tired," she answered. "And I've no desire to relive the murder of my boy."

"I understand," Sarah replied.

"Come for a walk with me," Alice beckoned. She took her had. Sarah spoke to the old woman, who nodded reluctantly. Sarah bent down and retrieved her bonnet before they set off. They walked along the outskirts of the fields. Once they were on the far side, away from Sarah's companions and away from her own, the young man came jogging over. He balanced his stick across his shoulder blades, a wrist on each end. He was breathing heavily. He was in fine shape. He wore almost nothing. A breechcloth only. Legs bare, buttock partially visible, feet naked, torso open to the eye. He stood there with no shame. Alice had to look away, cheeks red. Sarah rolled her lips inward and her eyes moved over the savage body. It was near perfection, Alice had to admit. If it weren't for their savagery, Alice would think they had simply never left Eden.

"Hello," he greeted with a smile at Sarah. He nodded at Alice and knelt before Ahote. He spoke to him briefly and the boy could hardly contain his excitement. Ahanu stood up as the boy ran off with gleeful laughter. Ahanu stood, a smile still on his lips. He spoke briefly with Sarah. He motioned back to the field with his stick, speaking earnestly. He wanted her to watch him play. No language barrier could obscure that fact. Alice did not think Sarah was such a silly girl. Alice believed her ignorance willful. She wanted a friend, had needed him when she had no one else, but she was unwilling to admit to affection for a savage. He hurried off with one last smile at Alice and returned to his game.

Ahote returned as they rounded the far end of the field and returned to Megedagik's furs.

"Do you think I can sit?" Sarah asked timidly, glancing at the Indians around the vast array of food. Alice said nothing. She wrapped a hand around Sarah's wrist and pulled her around the side. Aiyana had not returned, but Chilaili was lying on a fur, eating happily, full cheeked and tired. She was on her back, gazing up at the sky as she conversed with a few women. Alice's spot was left open beside Megedagik, and she sat down, pulling Sarah with her. Megedagik glanced at them, but said nothing about Sarah's arrival. Sarah was looked at the vast array of meats before them with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"Megedagik got most of it, I think," Alice murmured. Megedagik turned at the sound of his name, but quickly looked back to Donehogawa.

"Can I… would he be angry…."

"How would I ask?" Alice asked softly.

Sarah murmured the words to her softly. Alice was certain it was not entirely accurate.

Alice reached out and draped her fingers across the brown wrist beside her. Her fingers were cold against the burning skin. Fearful she might be mocked, she kept her voice low. He leaned down and offered her an ear. She repeated the words again, praying Sarah had given her the right words. He pulled back, considered her, and attached a nod to his words. Sarah immediately began to pluck at different trays, seemingly oblivious to the looks she was receiving from those who had not yet seen her coloring. She began shoving bits of meat between her lips greedily. Alice was unsure who was happier. Chilaili or Sarah.

The game continued on, and as the day grew later, those around them grew happier. Megedagik even began to smile. There was some playful ribbing. A few were disappointed, but everyone was quite light hearted. Sarah was rather attentive when Ahanu was on the field. She became less talkative and her lips twitched upward more. As a drink was passed around, one that Megedagik insisted the two white girls drink, everyone seemed to grow happier still. Alice did not need to be told it was alcoholic. She could taste it. She could _feel_ it. She did not drink much. Small sips. The trouble was it tasted good.

The natives liked it too. They drank quite a bit of it and sent the children off frequently to collect more jugs. It tasted like blueberries. The only sign of Megedagik's intoxication, other than his smile, was an arm wrapped around her back, a hand to her shoulder, and a point out to the field. He spoke to her, though she clearly did not understand his words. He allowed Sarah to do what translations she could, but he seemed more than content to simply talk at her.

Chilaili drank quite to excess and as the sun began to set, Megedagik took to spoking a rather foul smelling tobacco. He had her pull the bowl and fetch the leaves, but he did not offer it to her.

When the sun went down the fires were lit. There was singing, frightening chants of savage cries rippling through the cooling spring air. The fires were large. It kept the air warm, but still, Alice asked Megedagik if she could return home to warm up and sleep. She would have tea prepared for when he returned. That she had known without Sarah's help. Sarah had left an hour or so before sunset. She needed to get back to Talisa she had said and then hurried off with a kiss to Alice's mouth and a promise to return tomorrow. Alice did not have a chance to tell her to be careful. Megedagik's response to her request to return home was to remove the fur he had draped over his shoulder and drape it across hers. She remained with him, watching the lean bodies dance around the giant bon fires. Music that sent shivers down her spine.

She was grateful when Megedagik decided to return to his hut. She was stirred awake. She had not even realized she had fallen asleep, face pressed to his sturdy shoulder. Her pillow was removed and she was guided to her feet by large, strong hands, far from gentle, but not meant to hurt. She wrapped his fur around her shoulders and followed him back home. It was not until they were inside their home that she realized neither Chilaili or Aiyana were with them. She paused in the doorway, the heavy flap closing behind her, and watched him build the fire. Smoke began to billow upward as the wood caught fire, escaping through the little hole in the roof, and soon, the smoke dissipated, the fire burning clean.

She walked to her side of the fire and removed the fur. She removed it slowly. Everything felt amplified. The sound of the fire. The smell of smoke. The sound of the fur brushing across her deer hide dress. She folded it neatly and then knelt forward. She did not come out from behind the protection of the fire, but placed the fur down and nudged it toward Megedagik. He leaned back and considered her carefully. She looked down and reached for her bear pelt. She was ready to make her bed and go to sleep. Her eyes were heavy. Her head a bit cloudy.

"Maskaanna."

His voice came above the crackling of the fire. Her eyes moved from the snapping wood to the dark man across the flickering flames. His gaze was dark and pointed. Her throat went dry and she waited. He moved a hand from a bent knee and placed it to the thick furs beside him. Her heart began to beat harder in her chest, but her suspicion did not turn concrete in her brain. She stopped her fussing with the bear pelt and stared at him across the flames. His hand remained on the furs.

"Here," he told her. She crawled over to the spot he indicated. Her heart ricocheted around her chest cavity. It bombarded against her ribs. Slammed into her spine. The sound of the fire seemed impossibly loud. She could smell the last hints of the roasted duck in the air. She had helped Chilaili cook it earier. He did not speak as he raised a hand and touched the side of her neck. His hand was warm and large. His thumb moved slowly. It brushed against her earlobe. He touched her shoulder. He applied a slight bit of pressure. She fell back on the furs. A rush of hair escaped from between parted lips. His own breathing was quite calm. His gaze was blank. He looked almost board.

He leaned down. She felt his lips on her neck. He smelled like smoke, tobacco, dirt, and the hunt of sweat. All things her husband once smelled like and yet so very different. Not the same at all, but identical.

Her breathing was shallow, slightly labored, but his lips continued to leave behind feather light scorches on her skin. His breath was hot against her skin. Burning. His hands slid down her arms and closed over her hands. She had not realized how tightly she was gripping the bottom of her dress. He slid her hands upward and with them, her dress. Her creamy thighs met the warming air of the snug little home. His kisses to her neck continued. She felt something hot and wet. An opened mouth kiss. A flick of the tongue. A soft scraping of teeth. Her insides quivered.

It was very much like her wedding night. They'd married the day they met at port, spent a single night in a tiny cramped cupboard and then set off to sea. Neither had said very much. Lawrence had asked if he could. She answered of course, he was her husband. _Can I, Mrs. Dansby? Of course, Mr. Dansby._ A small bit of pain, some breathy grunts, a building but never relieved pressure deep within her, and it was over. The savage above her did not hurt her, though her body need find more room for his invading appendage than it need for her husband. His stamina was greater than her husbands had been during the consumption of their wedding, but other than that, there was little difference. It was not at all unbearable. Something she could survive from time to time.

As he rolled off of her she looked up at the ceiling. He remained on his back as she sat up and crawled toward the water basin. There was an unsatisfied pressure between her legs. She felt as though she need relieve herself, but knew that was not the case.

He looked up to watch her as she began to scrub at herself with a course rag and a swosh of water. It dribbled onto the floor, but, after a few moments observation, he lowered his head back down. He remained naked, breech cloth off to the side, and it was with the curiosity of a woman who had seen but one man her entire life that she let her eyes linger.

Soft and spent, the savage's member lay against his inner thigh, looking, other than its slightly darker color, very much the same as her husbands had. She had always wondered, quite unconsciously, if it was the same among all races. Though these savages were the closest of the inferior races to white men, she now assumed they were.

She looked away, pressing the cloth against herself. She sucked in a breath and he looked up. It was not pain, but the unrealized tension within her body. She scrubbed harder, pushing cloth covered fingers within herself to rid herself of his seed. She would not resist his carnal attentions so long as they bring her no physical agony, but she would bear no mixed-breed offspring.

"Maskaanna," he said after an unknown passage of time. She looked up. He spoke and held out a hand. His breechcloth was back on and he was lying beside the fire, ready to sleep. She lowered the cloth to the side and pulled down her skirt over reddened thighs.

He lowered his hand and she went back to her side of the fire. She lay her head down and pull e the bear pelt up over shoulders. It was too warm for it; but she wanted to be covered. He closed his eyes and went to sleep. She was content to stare at him from across the flames for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very warm thanks to those that took the time to leave their comments.


	13. XIII

Ahanu looked up with a smile as Sarah approached him. She had looked for him on the field for most of the morning before she was informed that he would not be playing today. It was time for the other villages to play, to determine who would move on. It was a test to see which village had the greatest warriors, and though the game was certainly barbaric, she failed to understand the connection. But she failed to understand many things about these savages, and so she accepted the analysis, and when Talisa and Samoset were distracted, she caught the eye of Rowtag, shot him a steely look, and slipped away.

She went those she recognized. Those with friendly faces that usually met her with smiles and kind sounding words. She was eventually directed outside the walls to his hut. It was smaller than the normal homes she had seen within the village, but from the looks of it, it would still be rather large inside.

"Wawetseka!" he greeted happily. He was digging in a jaw with a crude spoon. She recognized some of his other friends. Chogan, Melkedoodum, Akando. Others were present as well. Others she had not yet met. She approached nervously, but her trust in Ahanu was absolute. "Sit. Sit!"

She sat down on a log by Melkedoodum. The savage smiled at her, said not a word, and continued to stare. Sarah offered a smile, but looked away when he continued to stare. He, like the others, were bare down to the waist. It was a warm day, and even though they were under the protection of the green canopy above them, the heat seemed to be growing.

"Wawetseka," Ahanu said and held out a spoon to her. She accepted it. On the spoon was honey, straight from the comb. Thick, granular, lumpy. He made a motion for her to bring it to her lips. She sank her teeth and pulled some of the soft substance from the spoon. She smiled at the taste. It was sweet. She brought another bit to her lips and he placed the jar to the side. "Wait here."

He rose from his seat and disappeared behind his home. She remained there with his friends but kept her eyes down.

"Wawetseka," one of the strangers said. She looked up. He had a snug nose and big eyes. His head was completely shaved but he looked no older than Ahanu himself. The savage tapped his head and said nothing else. She let out a breath and looked down at the spoon in her hand. Chunks of honey still hung on it.

"You don't have to," Melkedoodum told him. At least, that is what she thought he said. She shook her head at the stranger and Ahanu came back around the side of the hut. He had something in his hands and he knelt down before her. He placed the blanket into her lap.

"For you," he said. He ran his hand over the fur. "Fox. You like the color," he said as if he were reminding her. She had told him that once. He had brought back a fox from a hunt. She had run her hand over the animal's tail.  _I like,_ she had told him.

"I do," she answered. He grinned. She ran her hand over it. It was soft. Summer would be here too soon to get much use of it as a color, but it would be nice to lay out and sleep on top of. A pillow perhaps. "How many?"

He frowned and shook his head.

"How many, fox," she said.

"Oooh," he smiled. He told her but she did not know the number. He showed her with his fingers. Twenty-four in total.

"Thank you," she told him. He went back to his seat an picked up the jar again. He began stirring at it, but he smiled at her from across the fire. She bit her inner bottom lip and looked down at the blanket. She knew exactly what Alice would say if she knew of this gift. Sarah chose not to think on it any further. The Indians began to speak, but their words were too fast for her to understand. Slow and simple was what she could handle, and even then it was often not easy.

She looked over the strangers as the young men spoke. One was sharpening a knife, as crude as the spoon she held in her hands. Her eyes moved upward slowly. She could sometimes not help her eyes from wandering. He had markings like Ahanu, but not as decorative. He scratched his neck with dirty nails and her eyes caught the glimmer of yellow. Her eyes followed his hand back down to the blade. She pressed her rapidly drying lips together.

"Where did you get that?" she asked him sharply. Everyone fell silent. He looked at her, large eyes even larger as he waited. She pointed. He looked at the gold ring on his thumb.

"Wawetseka," Ahanu said. She shook her head and stood. She put the blanket back on the log as she left. She didn't want it anymore. Ahanu got up to pursue her. "Wawetseka!" he called.

His hand wrapped around her arm as she tried to flee. He spun her around. It was rather forceful but she did not feel threatened. She stumbled toward him but he helped right her before she fell.

"Let me go," she ordered. He did not. If anything, his hand grew more tightly around her arm. It hurt. She yanked her arm away hard, but he was far too strong. "let me go," she ordered again. He shook his head and tried to speak to her. Her response was a hard slap of his face. He seemed stunned initially. He looked over at his friends. Melkedoodum began to laugh. Another she did not know smothered a snicker. When Ahanu looked back, his eyes glowered. She'd seen that look in his eyes only once, but never was it directed at her. Her throat constricted slightly and she felt a real rush of terror. Her legs went numb but she stood her ground. "Let me go."

He paused a moment and then released her. She turned and walked back down the trail she had come from, only she did not return to the village and she did not go to the fields. She walked in the direction of the river. She could hear it from where she was. Fast, rushing water carrying the rest of the melting snow downstream at a dangerous speed.

She wiped at her eyes angrily. She already regretted leaving behind her blanket. He'd truly be finished with her. Savage or not, she could not imagine any man tolerating such disrespect, and before his friends no doubt. She wasn't even really sure anymore why she was so angry. She knew what they did…but such a callous reminder of it. To wear someone's ring. Some man, some poor man, had been slaughtered, and now his family ring was on the thumb of an unwashed, brown, beast.

 _Noble savages,_ her father would say.  _There is something noble about their simplicity._

 _I don't know,_ her mother would muse,  _at least the negro can be trained._

Sarah wiped her nose with the sleeve of her dress. She would need to change soon. Alice was right. She looked ridiculous. Her eyes hurt. She sniffled.

She wasn't on a trail, but she continued to move toward the rushing water. She stepped on top of old sticks and crinkled leaves. She kind of fell through the woods. A controlled stumble, moving aside branches. She wasn't quite sure why, but she couldn't hear the water anymore.

She stopped and looked around the forest. She strained her ears. She heard birds. A gentle clatter of the branches and leaves above her head. No cheers, no laughter of children, no water. She bit her bottom lip and went back in the direction she had come. She continued on. If she went in a straight light, she would get back to the trail that lead to Ahanu's house.

But she paused some minutes later. Something did not quite look right. She chewed on her lip. She might have turned. Yes, she had turned. She moved to her left and pressed on that way. By the time she realized she was lost the sun was already beginning to set. It was beginning to grow cold. Very cold. She sucked her bottom deep into her mouth as she tried to calm herself. She could not possibly have gotten far.

"Hello?" she called. She was met with silence. Even the birds were quiet now. She looked over her right shoulder. She looked over the left. Behind her, ahead. Nothing but forest.

She wished she had her blanket of foxes now.

* * *

Ahanu raised the jug of wine to his lips and took a big swig. The grimace that had made its home across his face most of the morning remained. He stared across the flames at the log with the fox fur blanket. He took another deep gulp and plopped the jug down.

"Askuweteau! Askuweteau!"

He looked up to see Rowtag hurrying through the clearing toward his fire.

"What do you want?" Ahanu asked. He was reaching for the jug again. He just wanted to be alone.

"Alawa is missing," he told him. He came to a skidding halt before the flames.

"Alawa?" he asked with a frown. A rush of realization. "Wawetseka?"

"Yes, yes. Is she here?"

"Missing?"

"If she's here I won't tell anyone. My mother said she won't be angry. I just need to bring her back. My mom is so frightened. Samoset is furious."

Ahanu got to his feet.

"When was the last time you saw her?" he asked.

"Um, this morning," he answered. "She left about midday, maybe? I assumed she came to see you."

"She did," Ahanu replied. "She left. You didn't see her after that?"

"No."

Ahanu cursed softly. He should have made sure she got back to the village. If she got into the forest, she could be anywhere.

"Who is helping to search?"

"Mother went to some elder's, but they say it is useless to search at night. Best to try and find her once light. They think she's here somewhere. Best not to disturb the celebration."

"I'll find her," Ahanu said. He was already at the door of his home. He took his dagger and club, slung a bow over his shoulder and took his arrows. He expected no trouble, but he never ventured into the forest unarmed.

"What do I tell my mama?" Rowtag asked as he left the hut. Ahanu went to the trail to try and retrace her steps.

"Tel her I'll find her," he replied. Rowtag said nothing, and Ahanu slipped out into the wilderness.

* * *

Megedagik had the Maskaanna seated beside him. Inola's home was large, but full of people, and she had to sit close. Her arm brushed closed to his every time she shifted. He looked over to the other side of the hut. Aiyana, beautiful Aiyana, was seated beside Etlelooaat. Maskaanna sat drinking her wine happily. He turned to look at her again. Perhaps, contentedly might be a more accurate word.

"Maskaanna," he spoke. She turned her head. He offered her his pipe. She hesitated and then accepted it. She sucked in deeply, as he had demonstrated earlier. She handed it back, coughing out spoke from her between her lips and through her nostrils. He looked to Aiyana as he took the pipe back. She looked back to Etlelooaat and they continued to speak.

"More?" she asked beside him. He thought she meant from the pipe, but as he raised his hand, she shook her head. She motioned to the jug of wine being passed around the longhouse.

"When it comes," he answered.

"A cup," she asked. "For me?"

He shook his head. A hand lifted and closed around the back of her neck. Amazing she survived at all, as small as she was. He could kill her with a single hand. He lowered his hand. His eyes flickered to Aiyana. She was bringing the jug to her lips. She had not seen the touch.

She plucked at the tender flesh of the plucked goose with her mangled hands. The nails were warped, thick and uneven. They did not fit on the small, slender hand. He would have liked to have seen her hands before.

"Maskaanna," he rumbled. He handed her his pipe and asked for a different tobacco. She obeyed without a word. She had not rebelled since she took her whipping and she had not said a word about the night before. He doubted she could even articulate in his tongue what had occurred, but she made no attempt to inform Aiyana what happened. Chilaili would not care. Aiyana would.

She handed him the pipe again and glanced toward the wine jug.

"Sawni," he beckoned. The young woman came forward. Their hosts youngest daughter. Sweet, fresh faced and plump cheeked, she was about the age to be married. She had a number of suitors, but her father would settle for only the best for her, and Sawni, though she had every right to choose her own husband, wanted a warrior. "A cup, please."

She fetched him one and as the jug came to Maskaanna, he removed it from her small, ruined hands. He poured her the cup and placed that into her hands. She murmured a thank you in her own tongue. He did not correct her. She did that from time to time, but he did not think it was a challenge. By the time the jug came back around, the cup was empty. She might be more pliable tonight, more at ease. If Aiyana wished to stay with her sisters again anyway. He refilled the cup for her. He puffed on his pipe as a hand closed around his shoulder and lips were pressed to his ear.

"I need your help."

He turned with a frown.

"Talisa?"

"Please," Talisa moved back toward the door flap, beckoning him as she went. He sighed and looked to Aiyana and Chilaili. He observed his youngest brother looking after Sawni, and his eyes lingered on the Maskaanna the longest. She was gulping down the wine, staring into the flames with a faraway look.

The night had grown cold. He could see Talisa's breath, but only just. She had tears in her eyes.

"What is wrong?" he asked, touching both her arms in a comforting manner. She shook her head.

"I cannot find her," she answered.

"Cannot find who?"

"My girl," she answered. "She's nowhere. Powhatan will not call a search party. He believes she here somewhere, and if not, what can we do in the dark –"

"He is not wrong. The boy. Askuweteau, find him, you'll find the girl," Megedagik said with certainty.

"He does not know," Talisa confided. "I sent Rowtag. I told him, I would not be angry if she was with him. If he… but he went out to the forest to search. He swore he had not seen her all afternoon."

"There is little we can do in the dark and she is most certainly still in the village –"

"She is not one to wander!" Talisa cried. "She is timid. Please, help me find her."

"Talisa." He touched her face. "There is nothing I can do. If she's in the forest, we will find her tomorrow."

"Tiny little thing, she won't last the night."

"Talisa, I'm sorry," he said. "We'll find her. Tomorrow. She's within the walls, I guarantee it."

She looked off to the side. She sighed loudly and turned to hurry off. Megedagik grabbed the edge of the door flap and held it to the side. The Maskaanna was staring down into her cup. She traced an ugly finger along the rim of the cup. He let out a gush of air and dropped the tent flap.

"Talisa," he called. She paused and whirled around. "I will find her."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Sunukkuhkau," she breathed.

"Continue to search within. I will do a perimeter search. She could not have wondered far," he knew for certain. Even if she did somehow find herself lost within the thick forest, she could not have gone too far. He returned home to gather a warmer shirt and his dagger and club. He did not like venturing into the forest in the dark. Springtime. Hungry bears would be out of their dens. Wolves. A dangerous time to be wondering about the wilderness. He jogged the rest of the way to the village walls.

* * *

Ahanu swept through the perimeter of the village. He was careful. This was different than a simple scouting of an enemy village or a flush of the surrounding woods of predators that might snatch up wandering children. It was more time consuming, but an hour or so into his search, he began to grow concerned. A pack of wolves might have dragged her away. He could have missed those signs in the darkness. He was truly just calling out to her and hoping to hear a response.

He was not certain of the cold. He could see his breath, steam was coming from his skin, but he was coated with sweat, breathing heavy, and very warm. He only hoped she had the good sense to stay put. If she was even out here. For all he knew, she was already found, safe and sound. He hoped it was the case, but he pressed on and continued his search.

He paused again to catch his breath. He was far from the village now. Over an hour walk back in a straight line, and though he knew exactly where he was, if she had gotten this far, she'd have no way of knowing how to get back. He searched a bit longer. He could see the moon through the trees ahead. The forest was rather well lit.

"Wawetseka?" he called. "Sarah?" he tried. He waited, ears straining. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled loudly. He jerked his head over his shoulder and spun. He heard something. An owl maybe. An animal. He wasn't sure but he followed the noise. He walked into a branch, a branch he could have seen, and he felt blood on his cheek. He wiped his hand. Not bad. A scratch. But it stung. "Wawetseka!"

He heard the noise again. He breathed in deeply and moved toward it. The air was fresh. A beautiful night. He did hear an owl, but that wasn't it. It would be a wonderful night if he were not so frightened.

"Hello!"

His heart leapt and a smile came to his lips.

"Wawetseka?"

"Ahanu?"

He found her shivering against a tree, cheeks glistening in the moonlight. He knelt down and touched her cheek. It was damp.

"Stupid girl," he told her gently. "How'd you get all the way out here?"

She did not seem to understand, but she continued to shiver violently. He struggled to feel the cold. He was still sweating. He considered removing his shirt and surrendering it to her, but it was soaked with sweat. He removed it, knowing he'd get colder with it on then off. Her teeth chattered and she said something in her language. She looked utterly exhausted, frightened, and freezing. He reached out and closed his hands over hers. They were ice. He might survive a night out in this weather. He doubted she would in just that torn, filthy dress.

He pulled his hands away and reached into his sack. He lit a small fire. It was a decent place to start a camp. He told her she picked a fine place as he lit the fire, but she did not seem amused. He got the fame lit and wrapped a dry portion of his shirt around her hands. He had initially planned to bring her back that night to cam Talisa, he was sure she was utterly panicked, especially after what happened to her child, but he never thought she would get so far from the village. It was honestly rather impressive how lost she managed to get.

"Running away?" he asked her as he rummaged through his sack. She looked at him. "Fleeing? Um… go away…" he motioned with his hand.

"Feeing?" she repeated. She shook her head. "No. Water," she rubbed her hands in her lap, and he understood. The water tended to reflect through the forest. It was nearly impossible to find it by ear if she went off the path by his hut. He did not pretend to understand it. He assumed the spirits thought the place special and wished to hide it. By the time she realized she could no longer hear the water, she'd be gone. He looked at her, a tiny smile on his lips, and then looked down sadly. She'd left his blanket behind. That had hurt. Though he'd run off his drink, seeing her now made him wish he had carried the jug with him through the forest.

"Ahanu?" she asked him. He looked at her. She shrugged. "I'm scared," she admitted softy. He moved over to sit beside her.

"Don't be," he comforted. "I won't let anything harm you," he owed. He reached up and touched her cheek. He trailed a knuckle over her cheek. Her skin was so very soft. He wanted to kiss her. He could still feel the slap to her face, hear the laughter of his friends. "I promise," he said instead. She shivered again. She scooted closed to him. It surprised him when she nestled into his arms, but another shiver coursed through her and he realized just how small she was. White men were small people, but she felt even smaller. He rubbed his hands over her arms to try and warm her. He shifted so she was not as closely pressed to him. He had little control over the reactions of his body when she was this close. His lips parted and he looked down at her. He could see only the top of her cloth covered head, but he continued to stare. He tightened his arms and breathed in deeply through his nose. She shivered again.

"Food?" she asked softly. Her voice was small in the night air. An owl who-ed off in the distance. Then, silence.

"No," he answered sadly. He should have thought of that. He thought of the fox blanket on that bench. How many hours he had spent making that for her…

She nodded and lowered her face down to his arm. Her face pressed to his bicep and fingers wrapped around his forearm. She was not shivering as badly anymore.

"Sleep now, Wawetseka," he murmured. He raised a hand to press to her head. She nodded against his arm. In just a few moments, she was sleeping against his arm, warmed by both the flames, and his body. His body stirred again and he tilted his head back against the tree he was using for support. He squeezed his arms around her again and, against his better judgement, allowed himself to find sleep as well.

* * *

"Wawetseka."

The murmur came in her ear and she was very gently shaken from within his embrace. His bicep was her pillow. She was warm, her eyes were heavy, and she did not yet want to awaken.

"Wawetseka," he murmured again. "Wake up."

It was something about the sound of his voice that had her eyes fluttering open. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Very calm. Almost no inflection to his voice. As her eyes opened his hand covered her mouth gently. He spoke to her, most of which she did not understand, but she understood the basic gist.

"I need you to move to the side now, very slowly," he informed her. "Very slowly. Do not run."

When her eyes opened, her stomach sank.

"Pick up the club," he said. He pointed to it on the ground. She reached for it slowly, eyes darted from one to the other. She handed it to him but he did not take it. He crouched down slowly and reached his bow and quiver. Next, he grabbed his dagger and put it by his side. He watched intently. His eyes darted back and forth. Seven of them. Sarah gripped the club tightly. Her knuckles were white and her arms trembled. Her heart pounded in her throat and she was very certain she was about to throw up.

There were no thoughts of guilt. No what-ifs. No lamentations of her foolish venture into the forest. Her head was remarkably clear, and though her body trembled and her ears buzzed, she felt only the fear and severe concentration.

"Hey!" Ahanu suddenly screamed, raising the hand that held his bow in the air. "Go! Go!"

He was speaking to them, not her, but she flinched all the same. She almost darted.

Saliva dripped from long, white teeth. Gray lips curled backwards. She'd never seen one before, but she had heard stories from the hunters that would come back to the village. Mr. Frederickson had killed one once, but by the time she got to town, it had been skilled and the body disposed of. And now, she was lucky enough to have seven standing before her. She held the club up in front of her. She did not know who she should point it at.

"Hey! Go!" he shouted again. They did not budge.

"Ahanu?"

"Hush!" he shouted. He lowered his bow back down and slowly reached to his side and withdrew an arrow. She'd never seen such concentration. His eyes moved back and forth between the wolves. "Alpha," he finally said softly, though she did not know what the word meant. He raised the bow, pulled back an arm, and released in a fluid motion. The arrow whipped through the air, sinking deeply into the white chest. A yip echoed through the air. A high pitched little cry of surprise and pain. She nearly dropped the club she was so frightened, but she held tightly. A nose sniffed at the fallen wolf. It lived, growling and yipping. Ahanu raised his bow again, but he did not end the life of the wounded wolf. He aimed at another, catching it in a similar place. He wasted little time. He raised another, but by now the wolves were advancing. He shot a third arrow. It struck the wolf, but it continued to advance.

"Ahanu!" her voice was tight. It sounded foreign to her own ears. He pulled the dagger from his side. He held out left hand. He lowered, powerful thighs corded with muscle as he prepared himself. He kept his back to a tree. Sarah did the same. She waved the club at the wolves, but she was no threat, and the wolves knew it. The wounded wolf attacked without the others, snarling. A lithe jump to the side and he grabbed it by the back of the neck, sinking the dagger in to the hilt. He pulled the blade from the thick fur and kicked it to the side. It lay there, panting, whining, and fell silent.

The remaining four moved in but only two lunged at once. He kept his back to the tree, darted to the side, once again, grabbed the scruff of the wolf's neck. The animals resisted. The knife grazed it snout. A terrible snarl and Ahanu yanked back his hand and once again sank the blade into the wolves body. He was spun around, he straddled back of the wolf, and continued to jerk at the wolf. It whimpered and bucked and snarled. The others continued to snarl. The one that had lunged jumped forward again, over its wounded companion. Ahanu withdrew his knife, but this time, he was not quick enough. It lunged for his throat.

A shout left Ahanu, he moved his hands out, and shoved the wolf back. Its teeth snapped at its throat. When it jumped forward again, it's teeth were red. Ahanu's muscles strained as he fell to his back on the forest floor. His legs were tangled with the dying wolf on the ground, holding back the other with a terrible cry. Even before the others began to descend on him, Sarah ran forward.

She had often heard stories of bravery. Strong young men fighting in the fields of France, naval battles, adventurers. Afterward, some point when she was able to reflect on what happened, she would realize that bravery was not real. It wasn't bravery that had her running toward the three remaining wolves with a savage war club in her sweaty, white knuckled hands. She made no conscious decision. It was an impulse. She went hurrying, club raised, and swung sideways across her body. She whacked at the wolves that descended upon him. Blindly, with as much force as she could possibly muster. It gave Ahanu just the extra help he needed. He pushed off the wolf that had collapsed atop him and reached for the second. Sarah continued to whack away at the wolf. It turned, a low, guttural noise leaving its mouth as it snapped at the club. She saw its teeth, the ferocious sound of its bark. That was the only word she could think of, but it was so much more frightening than that.

She backed away, swinging at the wolf, but she made no further contact. She continued to stumble backwards under her foot hit a root and she fell. She hit the ground hard but she felt no pain. She lifted the club, but she'd be no match for its strength. Even as small as it was, she could not put up a fight to such an animal.

"Ahanu!" she cried. He cried out, but he was still on the ground. His last wolf snapping at his throat. And just as the wolf lunged, in fact, it's front paws had left the ground, an axe went flying through the air, lodging itself deep into the side of the magnificent killer. It yelped hit the ground and labored. Sarah scrambled to her knees and lunged, bringing the club down hard. The sound of a skull cracking was an odd sound and she brought the club down two more times, just to make sure.

She whipped her head around to see another savage pulling the wolf from the top of Ahanu, a knife stuck deep into its throat. He threw it down with a grunt and knelt to check on Ahanu. Sarah hurried over, club still in her hands. He had puncture wounds on his forearm where he had held the beast at bay, a superficial trail of straight teeth marks on his throat, and three deep cuts down his upper right pectoral. The bit to his arm was by far the worst. It was oozing with blood. He panted and rested his hands on his knees as the savage went around to put the still suffering animals at peace. Sarah watched him until she was able to discern his identity and then turned to Ahanu. She looked at the scratches on his throat. He was lucky his throat had not been ripped out.

Megedagik knelt by the wolf she had killed. He used his dagger and sank it into his jaw. He returned with his bloody dagger sheathed and his axe tucked to his side. He held something out to her. She frowned. He twirled it in his hand. It was covered in blood, but glimmered white. She accepted it and held the wolf's tooth in her hand. She looked up at him.

"Mahagin," he said to her. Ahanu smiled widely as he looked at her. His eyes were filled to the brim with pain, but he looked happy. Megedagik surveyed the array of dead bodies around them and then looked at Ahanu.

"Only seven?"

Sarah blinked. She looked at Ahanu, indignation spreading through her chest and warping her face into an angry frown. But a smile spread across Ahanu's face and, amazingly, he began to laugh. He shook his head, and with a bloody hand, gently prodded at the torn open skin on his chest.

* * *

Alice wiped down Ahote's hands with a rag before she let him dig his hands into the bowl of berries Chilaili had brought back from beyond the walls. Donehogawa had arrived with a fresh set of birds earlier in the morning, and for some reason, Aiyana had volunteered to cook. Alice had been making jewelry out of rocks and seashells with Mansi for Megedagik. He had not returned the night before, and no one was sure where he went. He had disappeared from the longhouse they had been eating in a few hours before Aiyana helped Alice stumble back home. She had not realized how much wine she drank until she tried to get to her feet and almost fell into the fire. Aiyana had caught her and with an arm around Alice's ribcage, helped her back home and covered her in the bear pelt. Alice's head hurt a bit now, but other than that, and general fatigue, it had no effect on her when she awoke the next morning.

Ahote dug into the blueberries, holding up the little fistful and squeezing hard. Blue juices dripped down his arm to the elbow. He scrunched up his face and barred his teeth as he did, letting out a mighty cry and victorious laugh.

"Ahote!" she cried out in frustration and seized his wrist. She wiped his hand and arm again. She took the bowl from him and placed it to her right. He protested but she shook his head. "No," she said firmly. "No."

He sat there and pouted. She flicked his cheek and he looked at her with a hard expression for a few more moments. Finally, he looked away and scooted over to help make a necklace.

"No more of this," she finally said, holding up his still blueberry stained hand. He waited excitedly as she handed him the bowl. This time, he picked up each blueberry individually and placed it between his lips. Alice had finished at least two necklaces herself by the time Megedagik returned to the fire. He approached with long, prideful steps. A large beast was draped over his shoulders. He walked forward and stopped before Aiyana. He dropped the animal before her and a smile spread across her lips. It was a mighty animal, if a bit small from a long, cold winter. It was an impressive kill.

Aiyana got to her feet to embrace Megedagik. Ahote was suddenly kneeling at the dead wolves' side, running his hands through the thick, grey fur. As the others began to fuss, questions abound, Alice focused on finished her necklace. The beast had been for Aiyana, but when the questions ended, and Aiyana began to skin the animal, it was Alice that he sat down beside, and as he asked for his tea to be prepared and pipe to be packed, his hand closed around the back of her neck, warm and firm, and gave three, hard squeezes.


	14. XIV

XIV

Rain would normally not be enough to postpone a tournament during a multi-tribe spring celebration, but Powhatan did not like his team's chances without the brave young warrior that had taken down a pack of wolves himself, and, though optimistic and hopeful, decided the day of rain would be best suited feasting. It was to give him time to heal, but when Ahanu awoke from his nap, body smeared with a paste that the medicine woman had packed deeply into his open flesh, his muscles cried out in agony and he doubted he would be able to partake in a week, let alone a single day.

He looked to bite mark on his arm. It was packed deeply. When the wrinkled old woman had come forward with her assistance, Powhatan looking on grimly, and poured the hot water into puncture wounds, and then began jamming the strange substance into the holes, she had gritted his teeth, pressed his teeth together, and did his best to smother his cry of pain. He might have let out a louder and far more satisfying cry of pain if Powhatan himself had not been standing there with his powerful arms crossed over his chest, face hard, eyes thoughtful. He had wanted to oversee the treatment of the warrior that had taken down a pack of wolves.  _One of mine,_ Powhatan had told the lesser chiefs proudly. That was what he would be cold later anyway. Ahanu had not been present when Megedagik went to Powhatan and asked for as experienced a medicine woman as he could find.

Ahanu had been far more worried about the wolves being brought back to the village. He surrendered the meat to the village. He only wanted the pelts, the claws and the teeth, and he only wanted the wolves he had killed himself. Megedagik received the wolf that would have ended Ahanu's life had he not arrived when he did, and Wawetseka got the wolf she had killed… with Megedagik's help. Megedagik had not protested the request.

Megedagik and Ahanu's friends had gone back to collect the rest of the wolves. Ahanu's friends would have done so even without the added bonus of an hour venture into the woods with the finest warrior the village knew. They leapt at the opportunity, and Ahanu was grateful for Megedagik's help. Megedagik wanted his own wolf; he had to leave it behind to help carry Ahanu home. Every step had hurt, and though his feet were uninjured, if it wasn't for an arm over Megedagik's shoulder and the warrior arm around his waist, he doubted he'd have made it. The blood loss made simple thought difficult.

Ahanu tossed his blanket off with a grimace and looked outside. He only ever pulled the door flap down in the winter. He liked a breeze when sleeping, he wanted to hear the birds, and he wanted to hear the rain. He stepped outside and stood in the rain for a few minutes. It was a cold rain. It felt nice against his burning skin. He walked over to his lean-shed and examined the wolf pelts. Chogan and Melkedoodum had spent the bulk of the day before skinning and harvesting the meat so it did not go bad. Ahanu had been sleeping, the tea he was given had done his job. Very vaguely, he remembered his friends ducking in to check on him before leaving. He'd been asleep since then.

The pelts were all beautiful. Thick and soft. He wondered if he should present one to Wawetseka. It was a far finer gift than the foxes. A woman could hardy fail to see the significance of such a gift. It would remind her that he had saved her twice in the span of a single day. Even after the display of disrespect before his friends. She had humiliated him, and he had gone to her aid. Surely, that would not go unappreciated.

"I don't understand them," he murmured. He wished he knew how white women preferred to be courted. Any woman born with normal skin would have either denounced him or accepted him by now. Wawetseka's behavior was confounding.

He wandered back to his home. He crawled inside and collapsed against his furs. Once of his friends had brought food earlier in the day. It was placed just inside the door. He thanked whoever had brought it silently and reached for it, still lying on his back. He went in and out of sleep for a short while, and awoke to a soft, questioning call from out of side of his doorway.

"Ahanu?"

He lifted his head from the furs, still on his back, arms and legs outstretched.

"Hello?"

"Wawetseka?" he asked. There was silence, some footsteps, and then a small white woman in a filthy dress came into view. She had a cloak over her shoulders, hood up over her bonnet covered hair, and had a large pot in her hands. He sat up with a grimace and tried to smile at her.

"Good afternoon," she greeted from just outside the door.

"Come out of the rain," he smiled, beckoning her within. She entered and knelt down on the edge of the furs. He glanced over at the fire and realized it had gone out. He reached for a few of the logs he kept inside, but was halted with an audible grimace. She was untying her muddy boots, and withdrew small, stocking clad feet. Surprisingly, her stockings were the cleanest article of clothing she wore.

He watched her crawl over to the wood pile and add them to the fire. She started it with some help and then sat back. She hugged her knees to her chest and hit her bottom lip. She would not meet his eye. Instead, she looked around his home. Her eyes found the fox blanket and she reached for it.

"This is mine," she told him, resting it on her knees.

"Yes, it is," he replied. They sat in silence for a few long moments.

"Do you hurt?" she asked.

"A little," he lied. She looked over the gashes on his chest and throat, but it was the bite on his arm that he was most proud of.

"I am sorry," she said. He frowned.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "I am glad I was able to protect you."

He was not sure she understood what he meant. He reached out to touch her hand but paused. His back was a mirage of bruises. He had fallen hard when the wolf got the better of him. His ribs hurt, and every motion that tugged at his skin brought a new wave of agony through him. He smothered his grimace and touched the skin around his chest. He looked for the jar the medicine woman had left him. He reached for it and grimaced again. He looked at her, fearful his display of pain might lower her opinion of him. She instead looked to the jar and reached for it. She pulled at the string, removed the hide cover, and looked at his wounds.

"Do you eat it?" she asked. He laughed and shook his head.

"No, you put it on the skin," he said. He collected some on his fingers from his chest and showed her. She looked at it, smelled it, frowned, and then dipped her fingers into it. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as she came closer and gently pressed it to the skin just around the wound. He took her wrist and moved it so they were right over the wound. "It goes right over and in."

She nodded and continued to reapply. Her hands were gentle and cool. She seemed to have the same thought and looked up at him.

"You are hot," she told him. She raised a clean hand and pressed it to his forehead. She touched his cheek. He could think of little else but pulling he door flap and pushing her skirt up to her waist. That would be a fine thank you.

There was a sudden crack of thunder and she jumped. He smiled and looked up at the ceiling.

"Does Samoset know you are here?" he asked, pointing at the ground. She nodded.

"Yes. They say I can bring this," she replied and reached for the bowl she had brought. She placed it beside him. It was filled with berries, meat, and a necklace made of wolf claws. She picked up the necklace and held it out so he could see it.

"Rowtag help me," she explained. He took it from her and examined it.

"Thank you," he told her, and put it over his head.

"I make this," she said and pulled out a necklace from beneath her clothing. It was the tooth Megedagik had given her. "They say I kill wolf, but I didn't."

"You did. You fought bravely," he said. Whether or not she did so alone did not matter. She had saved his life by jumping in the way she had. He'd have been overwhelmed otherwise. He reached out and placed a hand to her cheek. He stroked her skin gently. It was so soft. So very pale compared to his own. He looked into her eyes. He was as amazed today as he was when he first saw them. He had not thought such a color possible. To have eyes the color of the summer sky. Hair brighter than maize or wheat, or fawn. He wondered if she had been touched by the Great Spirit. He'd never voice the thought allowed, but he would never stop wondering.

He reached up with his good arm and pulled the covering from her head. Her lips parted. Full and pink. The rain beat down harder outside now. She would not be expected back until the rain let up. He swallowed thickly and gently puled at her cloak. She looked down as he gently brushed it from her shoulders.

"You want the fox pelts?" he asked softly. He scooted closer and she nodded. He smiled at her. "You like my home?"

She looked around and nodded. He was very gently playing with the button of her shirt. He was not entirely sure how it worked. Finally, his fingers plucked it free. his hand moved to the next and he lowered his face to hers. He wanted to know what those bright pink lips felt like. If a white woman tasted different. He'd bet she would.

Her flinch halted him. His eyes were drawn to hers but she was turning her face downward. A small pale hand went to his and pushed it from her shirt. "No," she got out. It was timid and soft, but clear.

"Wawetseka," he said and reached for her again. This time she slapped his hand away with stinging force. He jerked his hand back on impulse and his embarrassment and anger almost outweighed the eruption of pain that coursed through him. She turned to look at him. "I see," he said curtly. He began to scoot away.

"Wait!" she cried. He looked at her. He was angry. He was in pain. He was frustrated. But he waited patiently. "I have not… we are not…"

She clearly did not know the words she needed. She said a word in her tongue, looking at him as if he might somehow understand. He scooted closer.

"It's ok," he told her. He touched her shoulder gently. He stroked the back of her neck. "I won't hurt you," he promised. "I can provide for you."

This time, when he plucked at the buttons of her shirt, she did not protest.

"Ahanu?" she said.

"Shhh," he comforted her. "You're so beautiful."

He placed a kiss to her jaw. It was as heavenly as he imagined, being so close, and he kissed her neck. Her little pants of breath were soft, but she did not try and push him away. He pressed his mouth to hers and he saw white behind his eyes. Pulses of pleasure worked through him and momentarily forgot the pain.

He got to the last button and gently tucked it from her skirt. She wore so many layers, but he was glad for it. The anticipation of seeing what lay beneath those many layers. Having hardly seen a glimpse of it before. He discarded the dirty article of clothing. He was met with a white layer of clothing. Another shirt, but this was thinner. He tucked a finger beneath her chin and turned her face upward so he could kiss her again. He was a bit more forceful this time. Lips parting, he kept his tongue to himself, but he closed his lips around one of hers and slowly withdrew.

"Alright?" he asked her. His hand was at the back of her head, threaded within her hair. She nodded and he smiled. He kissed her again, and his hand searched blindly for the ties of her skirt. A sigh left her as his hand groped for the ties. He kissed her again and he found the ties. He pulled on them gently. His hand slid inward, dug beneath the final blouse, and finally found skin. He grunted slightly and kissed her more firmly. He parted his lips further and deepened the kiss. She was rather passive, but that was expected in a virgin. He slid his hand upward. He caressed her curves with his good hand, lowering his wounded arm back to his side. He was pain, but he would not stop now.

"Take this off and lie back," he murmured. He pulled up the last of the shirts. Her hands shook as she removed the blouse. It did not go by unnoticed, but it was not something that raised any concern. His lips parted as she was left topless before him. She laid back on the furs. He did not look up to her flushed cheeks or swollen lips.

His hands closed around her breasts. Pink nipples. He pressed his thumbs to the hardening little buds.

"Oh, Wawetseka," he breathed. He lowered his face to the swell of her breasts and he pulled her skirts down to her ankles. He breathed out deeply. He was disappointed the hair between her les did not match the hair atop of her head, but nor was it black. He pressed his fingers to the little mess of hair. She whimpered and he looked up at her. He leaned down, using his unarmed hand to hold himself up. His ribs protested, his skin ached, but he ignored it.

"You're beautiful," he told her softly. His voice was a low rumble. She nodded. He stroked her hair gently. He placed another kiss to her mouth. It soft and gentle, hoping to ease her nerves some. He'd never met a virgin so old. It amazed him a little. Perhaps white men were frightened of her coloring as well. He did not care. He just wanted her for his own. He'd done enough. He was amazed it took so long.

 _Touched by the Great Spirit,_ he reminded himself. It took rescuing her from exposure and a wolf pack attack. He slid a hand between her thighs and slowly parted them. She grabbed at his forearms and he let out a little cry of pain.

"Fuck," he laughed and she wretched her hand back and began to apologize profusely. She felt so guilty, tears came to her eyes. He shook his head and laughed softly. "It's ok," he murmured.

Pale fingers went to his chest. She touched the gooey substance. Examined the wounds. He was filled with pride. He felt strong. Worthy of such a woman. She touched one of his tattoos. White teeth held a pink lip tightly.

"I'll take care of you," he promised softly. She just stared. He lowered his head. He kissed her neck and throat as he pulled her closer. His forearm screamed in protest but he fought through it. He did not remove his breechcloth, but he loosened it and withdrew his erection. It was always something he was quite proud of, but she tilted her head upward and looked behind her.

He positioned himself at her entrance and slid in slowly. He wanted to relish every moment. One white hand tightened on his healthy forearm, the other gripped the furs beneath them. Ahanu closed his eyes and let a deep breath out. He pressed his mouth to hers but pulled back as he settled inside of her. Their noses nearly touched, lips close together. Her eyes were so beautiful.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked. She shook her head. He wiped a tear from her temple with a thumb. He kissed her, holding onto her cheeks and he pulled his hips back. He thrust back inside of her, slow but steady.

He'd never felt such pleasure. He'd sported with plenty of women. He was young, handsome, strong, a fine hunter and a promising warrior. Whether it was a dalliance or a woman hoping to become his wife, he never lacked for female attention. But this was magnificent. It went far beyond simple fun, a good time, or a good feeling.

He groaned against her mouth and deepened the kiss. His body began to hurt. He dropped down to his elbows, leaning heavily on his unwounded arm. Her hands went to his back. His normal stamina escaped him, but he took comfort in the knowledge that she would not know. He remained there, face pressed to her neck, body hurting worse than it had in his life, and yet he was overwhelmed by a sort of bliss he did not think possible.

"Oh, Wawetseka," he murmured and kissed her neck. He pulled back at her after some time.

Thunder rumbled off in the distance. Rain beat down hard on the dirt outside. He looked down at her.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked again. She shook her head. He kissed her again. Soft and gentle. He smiled against her mouth.

Finally, he removed himself from her and put himself back into his breeches. His chest was bleeding again, the scratches on his neck hurt and the skin on his forearm was screaming. She immediately reached for her skirt and shirt. He reached out, trying to tell her to leave it off, but she would not look up. He watched her, feeling rather nervous all of a sudden. He did not receive the sky smile and the coy eyes he had been expecting. He watched get back dress, grinding his teeth together nervously.

"Wawetseka," he said softly, hoping to draw her attention. She was putting on more of her layers. Her hands shook and to his horror she was crying slightly. "Wawetseka?"

He leaned forward and reached out.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"I go now."

"No, it – it's still raining," he said. "Stay."

She looked at him. He took hold of her wrist and kept her there. His frown deepened.

"I didn't hurt you?" he asked again. Why would she look like that if he hadn't.

"No. No, Talisa look soon."

He nodded slowly. His spirits were lifted when she reached out for the fox pelt blanket.

"You'll come visit again soon?" he asked.

"Yes," she said and smiled some. A smile returned to his lips and he pushed himself up to his feet. He took her hand in his and ran his thumb over her knuckles. He reached down, fighting the grimace all the way, and retrieved her cloak. He put it over her shoulders. He tied the string firmly and then lowered his hands.

"I will see you tomorrow," he said. "At the game. You will come watch?"

"I will," she answered.

"I will wear this," he vowed, touching the claws around his neck. He did not want her to leave thinking his affection would stop. If he thought Samoset would only agree, he'd go back with her now and ask her if she could join him at his fire. He would have to speak to Talisa when she was alone. Still… Wawetseka's distress bothered him.

He tugged her closer once more and kissed her. This time she was less than passive. She returned the kiss, far more comfortable apparently with a press of the lips. He pulled back and touched her hair. He didn't want her to go. Finally, he released her hand and let her go. She paused at the tree line, glanced back at him, and then disappeared.

"Don't get lost," he murmured after her. He went back into his hut, holding his side. He laid down on the furs, nibbling at the bowl of food she had brought to him. He fell asleep, fingers playing with the wolf claws around his neck, a smile on his lips.

* * *

Alice looked up sharply as the tent flap opened. She had asked Megedagik to let her remain behind for a few hours when he, Aiyana and Chilaili had gone to the morning feast. He had relented, but only when Aiyana spoke to him. Alice wasn't so sure if it had anything to do with coming to her defense or wanting her away from Megedagik. If only she knew what her husband had done when she did not come home. Megedagik had relented, but vowed to return sometime later. It seemed he had kept his promise.

He reentered the home and glowered down at her for some time. She prayed that Chilaili or Aiyana would come back after him, but her prayers would be unanswered. He let the door close and she looked back down to the food she was cooking.

"I am almost finished," she told him as best he could. He came and knelt down beside her. She waited for him to do something, but he simply stared, body angled toward her.

"I will give you the wolf pelt," he said softly. At least, that is what she believed he said. He reached up and touched a curl hanging loose from her bun. She continued to work at the meat laid out before her.

"I do not want it," she replied.

"A necklace… teeth or claws?"

"Give it to Aiyana," she replied. His hand moved to close around her neck. With the grip on her neck and moved her so that she was on her hands and knees. She closed her eyes, tightening her hands into the pelts beneath her. The air was warm when her dress was lifted up to her waist. He slid inside of her. He had a hard grip on her hips. He thrust into her hard. Slow and steady thrusts. The fire crackled, the rain beat down, and skin slapped against skin.

She dropped to her elbows and he lowered himself. He held himself up by his hands to the furs on either side of her head. And suddenly, in a thrust not at all different from the others, a cry left her lips. She was as stunned by the cry as the pleasure that elicited it. She was succumbed with a wave of guilt. She had not thought it possible for a man not her husband to bring about such pleasure.

He continued to thrust. Hard and steady, with growing momentum, until he once again climaxed within her. This time, the pressure within her was greater, her heart beat faster, yet her eyes burned hotter, and her tears fell faster.

He yanked her upward with a hand to her upper arm. Her back collided with his chest. Her head snapped back against his shoulder, and he grabbed onto her chin tightly. He spoke to her softly, lowly, and firmly, as if it were a challenge. A deep, low rumble. Forceful, low, and predatory. Face turned toward him, he spoke against her cheek, just a few inches from her ear.

"Teeth…. Or claws?" he asked against. The hand that did not hold her chin in a bruising grip was around her middle. She would not be able to move if she hoped to. His breath was hot. His body was hard. His voice brokered no room for challenge. She remembered the pain from his whipping.

" _Teeth_ ," she bit out. His lips curved into a biting smile. He looked at her mouth, black eyes menacing, and dipped his head. Just when she thought he might kiss her, he pulled his head back. He looked at her. Faces close, but not close enough to touch.

"Teeth," he repeated. A soft murmur. Hardly more than a whisper, but full of heat.

He suddenly released her. He let her fall back to her hands and knees. Her arms struggled to hold her up. She sat back up and straighed out her dress.

"Do not take long. We leave shortly," he told her as he exited the hut. She breathed heavily. Touched her jaw. Tried to ignore the pressure that only a husband could bring to completion.

 _Teeth,_ she thought to herself, pushing herself up to her knees once more. She pushed herself up to her feet, gazing at her warped, ugly nails as she did so. She thought again…  _teeth._

She walked outside, not meeting his gaze, and followed him back through the pouring rain, to the smoky hut she would spend the rest of the day, and all the while, thought of one thing. It reverberated in her head endlessly, and as she walked, staring at his broad back, the muscles cording in his neck, a smile came to her face.  _Teeth,_ she told herself. Teeth.


	15. XV

XV

Alice wrapped a blanket provided by Megedagik around herself as they stepped out into the rain to join the feast. The air was rather cold, the rain colder. She walked by Megedagik's side. She could still feel him inside of her. The pressure in her stomach. He walked beside her proudly, chin lifted. She was happy to walk on in silence.

"Sarah?" Alice asked as she a small bundled body approach, eyes swollen and red, lower lip trembling. She played with her apron, hands trembling ever so slightly. Alice moved from Megedagik's side and intercepted her with a warm embrace. Sarah leaned into her, lowering her face to Alice's shoulder and let out a rattle of sobs. Alice tightened her arms around Sarah and looked back at her Indian captor. He was watching with a dark gaze, but it was confusion and concern that was most apparent on his face. She saw no anger or annoyance.

"Oh, Alice," Sarah cried. She had her face in her hands as she leaned into Alice.

"What happened, love?" Alice asked. "Did he hurt you?"

Sarah cried just a little bit harder and Alice looked up to the sky. She had to close her eyes. Cold water rained down on her face. She turned to look at Megedagik. He stood in the rain, watching silent, arms crossed over his middle. For a savage, he always held himself in a dignified manner.

"Megedagik?" Alice asked. "May I go back with Sarah, please?"

Not at all what she actually said, but it was the message she hoped to get across. Megedagik seemed to understand it, and through the tiny lift of his chin and the furrow of his severe brow demonstrated his opposition to the idea, he gave a single nod.

"Thank you," she said and she truly meant it. "Come now, Sarah."

She held Sarah with an arm around the shoulders and another hand to Sarah's in from of them. She lead her the rest of the way to Megedagik's home and helped her inside. She sat Sarah down, made her a weak cup of the tea that helped quell her nightmares, and fixed a small bit of food. It was part of the wolf Megedagik had brought back. Initially, Alice had found the idea of eating a wolf rather repulsive, but it was actually rather tasty.

"Sarah… what did he do?" Alice asked softly.

"Nothing," she cried, shoulders shaking. She did not touch the tea or the food. She sat there, knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. Her face rested on her knee caps. Alice rubbed her back gently.

"If… I can speak to Megedagik. He has political power. He will see him punished," she vowed. And he would. A savage, most certainly, but she had faith that Megedagik would see justice done if she asked him for it.

"No!" she cried looking up. Her face was wet. Eyes blood shot. Puffy and red. "I… let him," she admitted. "I did not fight."

Alice frowned and removed her bonnet. She petted her hair gently, both in an attempt to comfort her and an attempt to understand what was wrong. She reached out and took one of Sarah's hands. Sarah squeezed hard, turning Alice's knuckles white.

"Did he threaten you?" she asked softly.

"He would not have hurt me," Sarah admitted. Alice looked down at their hands. Sarah's hands were far from ugly, but had never been as delicate as Alice's. That was no longer so. Alice smiled sadly. She looked back up to Sarah.

"Sarah… if he did not threaten you… if you were not afraid –"

"I was afraid he'd stop helping me," she wept. "I was afraid he would… he would move on. As Frances said."

"Who is Frances –"

"And so I let him and… Alice," Sarah cried, seizing onto Alice's hand with both of her own. "We are not wed."

"I know," Alice replied.

"I'm a fornicator, Alice," Sarah cried. "I will surely burn in hell now."

"Sarah,  _no_ ," Alice said firmly. "Hush with that."

"But it is so. Reverend Shelby –"

" – Is dead," Alice cut her off. Sarah looked at her in surprise. "And… Sarah, we must do… what we must to survive," she said weakly. "We do not live an easy life. Not in England. Not in Wolstenholme Towne. Not here."

"But I would have  _never…_ but I did, because I was scared, I did not want to. Oh, I will swear it to the heaven's I did not want to," Sarah said.

"We will pray," Alice told her. "We will pray together, beg for forgiveness for our sins, plead to the Heavenly Father for strength, and you will hush on talk of hell."

She brought Sarah's face upward with a finger beneath the chin.

"Will you pray with me, Sarah?" she asked. Sarah nodded.

"You are lucky," Sarah murmured. She was no longer crying, but her voice was broken and her nose congested. "Megedagik is married."

Alice's lips parted. The admission was right there on her lips. Sarah had not sinned alone.  _We do what we must to survive,_ she thought, but the admission did not fall from her lips. And though she could comfort Sarah, and she felt no amount of anger or shame on Sarah's behalf, Alice could not bring herself to admit her own sin. That she had borne the attentions of a savage, without protest, so that she could walk an easier path.

"Ready, Sarah?" Alice asked instead. Sarah nodded slowly. They began to pray, and they prayed for some time. Afterword, using some of Megedagik's tools, they both fashioned crude crosses out of ships of firewood. It helped ease their guilt, and Sarah confided in Alice about her relationship with Ahanu. She cried a bit more, they prayed again, and they sang songs softly, lying in the animal furs and gazing up at the ceiling.

They sat up with a little cry of surprise as the tent flap went flying open and Chilaili fell inside, erupting into laughter. A young man came in beside her, making sure she was alright. Chilaili shushed him and pushed him away. She got up and came toward Alice.

"Maskaanna," she said. "Megedagik has informed Samoset the pale one will sleep under our roof with you tonight. So, she may stay if you wish."

"Thank you, Chilaili," Alice answered. Chilaili moved over to the corner and removed a large jug from the corner.

"Megedagik's wine reserves," she laughed. "He will not be mad at you."

Chilaili, having observed Alice the night before, retrieved two cups and handed one to each white woman. She frowned as she spotted Sarah. Sarah flinched, but let the young Indian woman put her hands on either side of her face.

"Do not cry, pale one. You are too beautiful," she smiled.

"Thank you," Sarah said, voice cracking. Chilaili patted the jug again and then scurried off with the young man. He was handsome for a savage.

"Should we?" Alice asked, touching the wine. Sarah considered.

"I've never been drunk before," she said breathlessly. Alice poured them each a cup.

"It is not as strong as real wine, but stronger than ale," Alice explained. "and the jug is large."

Sarah took her cup and settled back. Rain still beat down hard outside. There was a crash of thunder as Sarah collected her skirts.

"My papa died first," Sarah said suddenly. She looked into the cup of wine. "My mama after. I ran. I wasn't fast enough." Sarah raised the cup to her lips, but before drinking said, "She died trying to save me."

"It is amazing what a mother will do," Alice murmured. "I am not a strong person, Sarah, but I would have killed that man. That… that beast."

Sarah was refilling her cup.

"You did nothing wrong, Sarah."

Alice leaned back against a wall. The homes were surprisingly stable. It took her some time to realize she could and that it would hold her.

"I did nothing," Sarah agreed.

"Do you care for this savage?" Alice asked thoughtfully. Sarah looked up.

"He's a savage," Sarah answered. "But he has treated me well."

"Sarah, I… I know this is not what you wish to hear," she said. She traced the brim of her cup her ugly fingertips. "If we are to spend our lives amongst savages, a… a husband that might provide –"

"Never," she replied. "Never."

"I only mean –"

"Have you been looking for a husband then, Alice?" she asked sharply.

"I am still in mourning," Alice snapped, but she understood Sarah's point. Alice remembered how she felt after Megedagik had used her. The filth, the self-loathing, disgust...To accept one as your husband, spiritual and moral master. Impossible.

"Do you remember Philben?" Sarah asked after a long silence filled with only falling rain and crackling logs.

"Oh, Philben," Alice laughed. "He was a sweet boy."

"He used to sit at the edge of the well,  _all_ day, swinging his legs, singing a song about everyone who passed by. Every day a new song. I used to go and walk by even when I had no need, just to hear mine."

"Those songs were dreadful," Alice replied.

"And Reverend Shelby would run out of the church with his broom, choked by his hat in the wind –"

"And Old Freddy Frederickson would come out of the tavern, shouting about the king, like he had anything to do with anything –"

"Miss Rose would stand about until she could get in a slight against the papists –"

" – Or the puritans."

"Oh, she hated Puritans."

"And Philben would sit there and laugh, and laugh, and laugh," Alice said. "And he'd get to stay and sing his songs."

"And now they're all dead," Sarah answered. Alice looked down and played with the furs beneath her hand.

"It started with the winter. I never knew one so long, so cold. First Jane… so many died. And now, this… we never should have left England."

Sarah finished another cup of wine and poured another. Alice finished a cup of her own. Sarah moved over and leaned against Alice, chest to her front. Alice wrapped an arm over her.

"Where do you think we would be right now?" she asked. Alice played with the fraying end of lace on Sarah's apron. "If we stayed in England."

"We'd be seated around a large stable. We would be friends. We'd have found each other, you and I. William would be there. You'd be wiping his face clean." Sarah closed her eyes and a fat tear rolled down her cheek. "Jane would be in my lap. Lawrence would be cutting the roast. A big, fat turkey, gravy, potatoes and carrots, duck, no fish to be seen." Sarah laughed, but she started to cry again. "And you, you have the most handsome husband. He's carving the duck." Alice stroked Sarah's hair, eyes gazing off into space. "Your mama is there. Our papa. My parents. My brothers and sisters are there. We're drinking real wine and strong ale, toasting the king, singing songs…"

She continued on until they were both asleep, a near empty jug just a few feet away, cup tilted in her hand, red wine sinking deeply into furs below.

* * *

Megedagik returned to find that the two white woman had through most of the wine his late-wife's brother had brought from the North. She had ruined a wolf pelt he was quite proud of. One of the last animals he had gotten before his father died. He picked up the cups, drank what was left, and put them away with the jug.

He paused to look at them. The Maskaanna had her arms wrapped around the pale one, cheek resting on the top of her head. He stopped before them and reached out to touch her cheek. A rough knuckle trailed down her cheek slowly. A soft breath escaped her lips. He trailed a thumb along her bottom lip.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. The pale one remained asleep. Her chest rose and fell with slow, but deep breaths. He looked at the Maskaanna a short while. His hand remained on her face. His thumb went to stroke her cheek slowly. She was warm. He had thought of her as he walked back through the cold spring rain. How desperately he wished to return to his home to the warmth of her body.

"Is she well?" he finally asked. His hand did not leave her face.

"I think so," she answered.

"Did someone hurt her?" he asked. She shook her head and sat up. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were slightly glazed with drink.

"I don't think so."

She did not always use the correct words, but her meaning was usually easily ascertained, and her pronunciation was surprisingly strong.

"You will tell me if they have," he told her and lowered his hand.

"Did you bring food back?" she asked. She was slowly extricating herself from the pale one's arms.

"Some," he responded. He handed her to bowl. She took it with a soft thank you and dug into the meats with her fingers.

"Tea? Or Tobacco?" she asked with plump cheeks.

"Neither," he answered. She nodded and looked back to the bowl of meats. She set about brewing her tea. The tea that kept her nightmares at bay.

He felt his desire begin to bubble. Just being close to her enflamed his blood. If he knew of her great beauty before, if he knew of her soft, pleasing voice, and the softness of her skin, he would not have brought her with him. She made to move away and he reached out. He seized a wrist and moved closer.

"Sarah –"

He shook his head. His hand closed around the back of her neck and her lips parted with a little breath. He looked at her mouth. Even with the cut cracking her lips open, her mouth was full, soft, and he longed to taste her. He held her in place as he pressed his mouth to her. He kissed her softly. He did not want to hurt the bruised skin.

The woman lit his blood on fire. It built up slowly, very very slowly, yet seemed to have overcome him all at once, and now, he could think of nothing but getting away from Aiyana long enough to let a hand linger on her skin, or to bend down too close so he could smell or hair, or press his mouth to hers… remove her dress from her body.

His fingers dug into the skin of her neck. He held her firmly and deepened the kiss. She did not return the kiss, but neither did she fight it. He nudged her backward gently. He looked to the pale girl just as the Maskaanna did. She was sleeping heavily. Mouth open, breathing a bit loudly through a blocked up nose. She'd not wake this night.

"Aiyana?" the Maskaanna asked. He frowned and shook his head. He pushed her skirts back up. He tried to get her lift her arms so he could lift it up over head, but when she began to show resistance, he relented. He leaned back and pulled her closer. He remained on his knees as he thrust inside of her. His hands closed around the bare skin of her waist. Her pale skin turned red beneath his grip, but he knew she would not bruise.

She turned her face away. She stared at the wall as he continued. He required little more than her body to derive his pleasure from her, but it bothered him that she would look away. He thrust harder, hoping if he could not get her attention through an offer of pleasure, he might gain it from an infliction of pain.

A little cry did leave her, and she reached forward to grip his wrists on her waist. He looked down and ran a thumb over the tiny scars on her belly. Birthing scars. He closed his eyes as he fought the image of her little pale headed child from his head. Her nails dug into her his arm. His eyes popped open when he realized this was not an attempt to dampen the hurt of his tightening grip around her middle, nor the tremors of discomfort from every powerful thrust of his hips. Her grip moved upward. Her nails dug into the skin of his arm. She raked her hands downward. Many of her nails were still short and dull, and so the long, bloody streaks she left in her wake were limited.

The deeper her fingernails sank into his flesh, the harder he thrust into her. More out of spite than any real desire to force a child on her, he rode out his wave of bliss within her. He held her close. He leaned down closer. He looked into her eyes. She was panting. Her cheeks were red. Beads of sweat were on her forehead. He would love to hear her little moans of pleasure. Her nails digging into his back as her hips bucked against him of her own accord.

If only her son had lived, he thought with unapologetic selfishness, she might be more receptive. She remained still as he pressed his mouth to hers. She did not move. She did not react. Her lips were parted and she left them open. He left his lips on hers. She tasted like fermented blueberries and spiced wolf meat. He licked her bottom lip before withdrawing from her.

She sat up and did not even bother to pull her dress down over her hips. She went straight to the water basin. He did not watch her as she scrubbed herself clean. He examined his forearms. He was unsure what he would tell Aiyana. Marriages were not monogamous as a rule. One might have many wives, but that was for children and support. A wife might put her husband aside and leave for another at any time for any reason. She need only say the word. A wife or a husband might stray, if that was an accepted rule within the family. Aiyana was the jealous type, and though early on in their marriage, both had not forbidden dalliances, should one become available, it had changed rather quickly. Aiyana did not even like it when he lay with Chilaili, and she was a recognized wife. Most could separate sex and love. Aiyana could not.

Maskaanna finished and went back to the pale woman. She did not lie down right away. She was looking at her nails. The copper band she wore on her hand. She twirled it slowly. It seemed to have significance to her. She would stroke it sometimes. Twirl it. Sometimes just gaze at it.

"Is he dead?" she suddenly asked him. He looked at her.

"Who?"

She knew her son was dead. She knew he would not be coming back. She kept her head down. She was twirling the ring around her finger.

"My…" she paused. She did not know the word. "William's father."

He looked at the ring.

"Yes," he answered. He did not know who this man was, what he looked like or where he had been when they attacked. She had clearly not seen his death. She would not have asked the question. But even though he did not know who this man was, had never seen him, he knew his fate.

"William," he said after a short while. She looked up at him. Her eyes were hard. He wished they could communicate better. There was intelligence shining in those eyes, a deep maturity, and a wisdom he would enjoy knowing.

"William," she nodded. "My son."

Her lips quivered and her eyes turned wet, but she did not cry. She reached for her bear pelt despite the warmth. She covered herself and Sarah, setting in behind the girl. She fell asleep. Megedagik stayed awake for some time, staring into the crackling flames, the name William rattling around in his skull.

* * *

Against the hopes of and wishes of many of those domiciled in the king's capital city, the next day was magnificent. The sky was blue and clear. Birds chirped loudly and happily. A breeze drifted through the air; it was just enough to brush a strand of hair to the side and to cool the skin. Those that would partake in the continuing tournament would be grateful for it, but Powhatan left his hut the next day, followed by three of his prettier brides, in a sour mood. Ahanu returned to the fields with his club in hand, brow sweaty and skin pale. When he reported to the paramount chief, swearing that he was ready to play for his tribe, Powhatan waved a hand and ordered him to sit the day out. He was far more useful on the field of battle than in a silly game, though the disappointment in his eyes was obvious.

Ahanu walked from the King's furs with a great sense of relief. He would have managed to do nothing but embarrass himself if he were forced out onto the field, and he was still in a fair amount of pain. The medicine woman had repacked his wounds. This time she lay strips of some sort of plant and some deer hide over the gashes on his chest and the puncture wounds in his arm. He'd thrown a shirt on over his glistening torso. A group of little girls approached him as he made his way through the growing crowed lining the field. He knelt with a smile as they presented him with the blanket. Perfect for spring, finely made, and he let them drape it over his shoulders gently. They hurried off with a fit of giggles, saying something about the  _pack slayer._ He did not like the name. He hadn't killed the pack himself. He'd have died had Megedagik not arrived when he did. Wawetseka would have died, simply because he had chosen to sleep instead of keeping watch.

He circled around the field and paused when he found Talisa and Samoset spreading out a fur with the two boys. Milap had his own club. He looked ready to join in the game, and Ahanu felt a twinge of disappointment. He loved intertribal tournaments. He regretted not being able to join in on the last few days. Then he remembered the feel of Wawetseka. Her skin against his body, around his body, the soft tremble of her pink lips, the feel of hard, pink nipples. It far out weighted the regret.

But he did not see the pale white woman amongst them and he moved onward. He was surprised to her seated beside a number of elder's, but he soon spotted Megedagik, then the Maskaanna, and it made some sense. He was a bit anxious as he approached, but he was hailed over by Donehogawa and Megedagik had looked more receptive than he'd ever been before.

"Askuweteau!" they called to him. "Sit."

He sat amongst their furs. Aiyana gave him a sharp look and then those penetrating dark eyes went to Wawetseka. His brow furrowed and he looked at her. She was playing with some seashells a group of little girls had sprawled out on their furs. The Maskaanna was looking at him. Her gaze was unsettling.

He was offered some wine and food. He ate and drank. As he spoke, he glanced to Wawetseka anxiously. Her tears the day before came to mind, but he knew better than to think that was what was bothering her. She had not made an attempt to leave. She never said  _no_.

Once the warriors began to speak amongst themselves about something he was not connected to, he held out his cup of wine to Wawetseka.

"Wawetseka?" he murmured softly. She looked up, glanced at the cup, and took it from him. She gave a little smile. His smile widened. Just shy. He got up and moved around the children to sit across from her. "Maskaanna," he said with a bow of his head. She looked at him, looked at Wawetseka, and then nodded at him.

Wawetseka spoke to the Maskaanna in their tongue and leaned forward. She tapped the necklace around his neck; the one she had made him. He smiled and showed it off proudly. The children gathered around, but they were more interested in his wounds than the necklace. He showed them, and even the Maskaanna seemed impressed. She leaned in to look at the puncture marks on his arms. He made some jewelry with the children, one of which he presented to Wawetseka.

"She spent the night in our home in tears," Aiyana suddenly said to his right, reaching past him for a second jug of wine. He frowned and looked over at her.

"She seems quite happy right now," he snapped indignantly. Megedagik looked over. It was not a tone one used when speaking to his wife, but Aiyana smiled and he looked away.

"I never said why. I thought you might like to know," Aiyana replied. "You seem to have known already."

She placed a blueberry between her lips and eyed him with a tiny, cold smile. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even Wawetseka, with all their differences, when placed beside her, would not be able to compare to an objective eye.

"Know that she is close to the Maskaanna, and the Maskaanna as the ear of husband," Aiyana warned softly.

"I did nothing wrong," Ahanu replied as she moved away. She looked at him and shrugged. Her eyes lingered on him as she sat back beside Megedagik. She looked away when she put an arm around his shoulders and placing a berry between his lips. Ahanu looked back to the sea shells in his hand. He got up with a grunt, letting the blanket the children had given him earlier in the day slid from his body. The day was growing hotter and hotter by the moment, and the sun had not yet crossed the sky. He moved to sit next to Wawetseka.

"Hello," he smiled at her. She looked at him and then looked down.

"Hello," she answered. He looked at the Maskaanna. She was mending a shirt, but her eyes were on him.

"I missed you," he told her with a smile. She looked up, but it was clear she did not know what he had said. "I am going to go say hello to my friends. Would you like to meet them?"

She looked at him and then just shook her head. He felt a crush of disappointment. His lips parted and he slowly pushed himself up to his feet. He retrieved his blanket, thanked Megedagik and the others for allowing him to join them, and stomped off down the field.

* * *

He looked up as she approached. He had only been gone ten minutes before the gnawing in her stomach had grown too much and she got up to go after him. He looked away to his friends and she almost retreated, but he looked back and smiled at her. It was not his normal smile, but one that was rather tight. She smiled back and sat down by his side. He introduced them to the few she did not know, but she only said hello to them. She disliked speaking to new people out of fear she might be mocked.

"Can I show them?" Ahanu asked her. He touched the side of her bonnet and she nodded slowly. He pulled the fabric from her head gently. They all wanted to touch it. She relented, and once finished, she put the bonnet back on her head. The Indians began to speak and Sarah put her hand on Ahanu's.

"Are you angry?" she whispered to him.

"Angry?"

"At me?"

"No," he smiled. "I was. A little," he grinned. "I…"

He glanced over his shoulder. They were close to the tree line.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked. She considered a moment and then nodded. He rose and took her hand. He said something to his friends and led her into the tree line. The forest was not too thick here. Over the years, the brush had been cleared. Just tall, thin trees and a fair amount of space to walk through.

They walked for a bit and she realized suddenly that they were in the middle of the clearing his home laid in. He brought her over to a little shed and showed her the wolf pelts.

"Do you like them?" he asked. She nodded again, a real smile on her face this time. She ran her hand over them. They were so soft. "I am going to present one to the Maskaanna, but you may have the rest."

"The rest?" she asked in surprise.

"All," he said in case she did not know the word.

"I don't need all," she laughed. He looked at her with surprising intensity and then looked down looking rather dispirited. "I don't mean…" she grabbed onto his arm. He grimaced and yanked it away with a grunt. She cried out with guilt and found the puncture wounds beginning to ooze again. "I am sorry."

"It's alright," he said, dabbing gently at the skin.

"I just… don't want to take all from you."

"I want you to have them," he answered. "I…"

He looked at the furs.

"Wawetseka," he said, turning to face her. "Do you wish to be mine?"

She blinked. She must have misunderstood. He came closer and he touched her cheek.

"I can provide for you, and I can protect you. I will take no other wives," he vowed earnestly. He said much else that she did not understand. She was watching with wide eyes and parted lips. He cupped her cheeks and stroked her face with his thumb tenderly. He leaned down and placed a gently kiss to her lips. "Wawetseka," he said reverently.

Her lower lip trembled and a tear fell from her eye.

"I…" she looked down. Another tear fell from her eyes. "I can't," she whispered. She looked up and he frowned. She saw the face of her parents. Saw their dead bodies. She shook her head and moved away from him.

"Wawetseka, please," he called.

"You killed them," she told him. "You killed my people. I can't…"

He grabbed her and held her upper arms tightly.

"Your people  _invaded_ ," he said. "Invade?"

She was not entirely sure of the word, but she think she understood.

"We fight and we win and now you're a prisoner," he said bluntly. "I will make you my  _wife._ "

"No!" she cried and ripped her body from his hold. She was able to. He was not holding onto her tightly. How much of that was because of his wounds or just that he was holding her gently, she did not know. "I will not be your wife!"

He stared at her but his anger lasted only a moment before she burst into tears and sat on the ground. He moved to sit down before her. He let her cry for a long time.

"Did I hurt you? Yesterday?"

She shook her head.

"I w-will not mmmary a savage," she answered in English. He remained silent.

"I did not mean to make you cry." His voice was sad and low. She reached out and grabbed onto his pinky finger.

"We can be friends?"

"Friends," he laughed bitterly, a sour smile on his lips. He looked at her. "No," he said sadly. Her lower lip trembled further, He looked down at his hands, shoulders slumped. Her hand tightened on his pinky.

"What if… like yesterday," she offered. He turned his head to look at her, eyebrows lifting with hopeful surprise. "But… no wife."

He looked at her.

She had done it before. If her place in hell had been purchased, there was nothing she could do about it now. She was not ready to part from him. The thought of it put a hole in her chest and a terrible pain in her head. He was her only friend, besides Alice.

But she would not bind her soul to a savage for eternity. She would not vow before God in Heaven that her heart, soul, and body belonged to a man that had slaughtered those she loved. Somehow, the idea of lying with him again was less repugnant.

_We do what we must to survive,_ Alice had said. And she would, but she would not sacrifice her soul.

This time, when Ahanu leaned in toward her, and pressed his mouth to her lips, very timidly, she kissed him back.


	16. XVI

**Warning: Graphic violence**

Sarah carried a basket with some of the cakes she had made with Talisa and some other women the night before. They were not sweat. They didn't have a whole lot of taste at all, but they were filling and easy to make. The Indians seemed to like it as well. She thought Ahanu might like something he did not have to cook himself.

She moved down the trail and stepped into the clearing of his home. A few days earlier, when she relented to Ahanu's physical attentions to prevent the loss of his friendship, and he had laid her back down inside his little home, he told her that whenever she decided she wanted to join him, she could. If she wished to be his wife, she need only say the word.

Alice would know what to do. Sarah grappled with what might be the greater evil; to fornicate with a savage, or to marry one, but Sarah could not bring herself to tell Alice what had occurred. She did not want to see the shame and disgust in Alice's gaze. Brave, strong Alice would never let herself fall prey to the attentions of a savage male. She would not allow a connection to be formed that might arouse the same terrible pain Sarah had felt at the thought of losing Ahanu's friendship. Alice was strong; Sarah was weak.

So, Sarah grappled alone. When Ahanu had pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her with shocking passion, touching her in intimate places with sure hands, she wondered if she had made the wrong decision. She never once thought of telling him to stop and leaving. She even tried to return his kisses, though she was not entirely sure what to do. She only wondered if marriage, even if it was marriage to a savage, might be the more holy option. But then she saw the pale faces of her dead parents and her resolve hardened.

"Ahanu?" she called as she came around the corner. She found him in his little lean-to shed, scraping down the inside of one of the wolf pelts. His arm was wrapped up with some sort of savage bandage. He was sweating, stripped down to nearly nothing. She blushed and looked away as he came closer, a bright smile on his face.

"Wawetseka," he greeted. He stopped before her, sliding the large scraping knife into the string of his breechcloth.

"I bring you bread," she told him.

"Thank you," he smiled and took the basket from her. He sat down by the outside fire and reached in. He ate hungrily and looked over at her as he chewed. Once he swallowed he asked, "can you stay long?"

"I don't think people will look," she replied. He smiled and scooted closer. He continued to eat, but he reached up and gently pulled the bonnet from her head. He didn't like her hair covered. She did like the way he looked at her.

"I cook for the feast," she told him. "I helped. Lomasi? We pluck and skin."

"Lomasi?" he asked. "Powhatan's daughter."

She nodded.

"Aranck's wife," she added.

"Are you excited?" he asked her. She shrugged and picked up one of the cakes.

"I think," she answered. "Just… dancing?" she asked and mimicked the dancing motion to see if she had the right word. He smiled at her a moment, and then he nodded. "Music." She tried to think of the newest additions to her vocabulary. "Eating, feasting. Celebration. Celebrating."

He nodded.

"Celebrating spring?" she asked. "The harvest?"

"And our victory," he added. She waited, unsure what the word meant, and then she remembered. She had heard the other's using the word as they drank wine the day before. She pinched her lips together. She looked down at the bread in her basket.

"How many," she asked him, "did you kill?"

He blinked at her. His lips parted and he looked to the side, realizing what he had said.

"I don't know," he answered. He pulled a cake apart with his fingers and examined it. "I … was in the fields," he continued. He was being honest. His face was neutral. "I think…. Ten. Eleven."

"Why?" she asked softly. "What did we do?"

"We were protecting our home," he answered softly. "It is war. The strong conquer the weak." He reached up and cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked the flushed skin gently. "It is the way of life."

She looked down. He made her look back up.

"But I will protect you," he promised. He added, "because you're mine."

She nodded again and looked back down. He put down his cake and came closer again. He reached over and began tugging at the buttons of her bodice. She made no move to protest.

"Are you mad at me?" he murmured, but he continued to undress her. She shook her head. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. He pressed his forehead to her and breathed in deeply. He gently pulled her to her feet once the bodice was unfastened and the apron untied. He guided her back to the hut with her hands and his and his mouth pressed to hers.

He pulled her down to the furs and kissed her. Their tongues met. He kissed her deeply. It seemed every time they went to his furs, he grew more forceful. But he never hurt her. He would grow impassioned, but never violent. She returned the kiss timidly. It only inflamed his hunger. He threaded his hand through her hair and pressed his face harder to hers. Her neck bent back and he loomed over her. She reached up, her hands went to the bare skin of his chest. She was careful to avoid his wounds.

He murmured something to do and pulled the ribbon from her hair. This was something he had not yet done. Her hair fell around her shoulders, wavy from the previously wet hair being curled into the neat bun at the back of her head. He pulled back and ran in his hands through her hair. Hands that had killed her friends, her family. Large, brown hands that had brought terrible pain, ended innocent lives. They moved through her hair gently, pulling lose little tangles.

His lips captured hers again. His hands left her hair long enough to finish undressing her. He laid her on her back on the furs. He took to kissing her again. He liked to kiss. At first, she found the experience to be uncomfortable. To have a man so close. His face pressed to hers. Their tongues touching. The smell of him. Dirt, sweat, smoke, meat, tobacco. It was not to horrible anymore. She even found the smell was not so overwhelming. She liked the smell of him. It brought her some comfort. He had helped dampen her fears on the trail. The sight of him, the smell of him, still brought that feeling of safety over her.

He lowered his face from hers and she regretted the loss of his mouth on hers. The smell of him no longer filled her senses. Instead, his lips closed around a nipple. A large hand gripped the other breast. He licked a nipple a cry escaped her lips. He looked up at her. Concern swam in his black eyes, but slowly it curved into a tiny little smirk. His closed his lip back around her nipple. He flicked it with his tongue. She grabbed onto his shoulders. Her vagina constricted. It was strange feeling, but not entirely unpleasant.

"Wawetseka," he breathed as his mouth left her breast. He rubbed her with his fingers. He thrust his middle and ring finger inside of her. He pulled it back and slid it back inside. When she looked up, red cheeked, lips parted, his muscles were flexed and his eyes were hot.

He leaned forward and gently flipped her over. He helped her up to her hands and knees. He'd always taken her face to face. He'd lay atop of her and thrust into her. Usually his lips were on her lips. His tongue licking the sweat from her neck. She wondered if sexual intercourse with a proper man would be so carnal, so rough. She doubted it. Savages were closer to nature.

He had one hand on her hip and one of her shoulder as he slowly slid inside of her. It felt on, not being able to look at him. She always felt vulnerable when bare to him. When he was inside of her, or touching her, or kissing her, she always felt more at his mercy than any other time. This only amplified that feeling. He continued to thrust inside of her. His hands gripped her firmly. Once again, he was rough, but he did not hurt her. It was not violent.

He grunted. He thrust quickly. She thought nothing when he climaxed inside of her, falling down to cover her body with his, breathing hard as he placed gently kissed over the back of her neck and shoulders. He licked a drip of sweat from the back of her neck. His teeth pressed to her skin. He bit down gently, and then kissed the red skin. When he released her, she lowered herself down to the fur. He lay down beside her, still breathing heavily. She turned her head to look at him. He was completely naked. His breechcloth was in a tiny mess to the side. His brown skin glistened with sweat, veins pulsed in his arms, and little beads of blood were coming from the bite mark on his arm. He had a smile on his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

"Wawetseka," he said and rolled over on his side. He held up his face with his hand, elbow in the furs, and gently ran his fingertips over her belly. He trailed a finger from the middle of her breasts, down to the little mess of hair between her legs. She felt no need to cover herself. Not anymore. "I am a fine hunter. A fearsome warrior. Why will you not be my wife?"

_I will not be the wife of a savage._

She just reached up and trailed a finger around one of the back markings on his arms.

"I am handsome," he said with no doubt in his face. "Strong." He pressed two fingers to her cheek before lowering his hand again. "I care for you." He hesitated again before adding, "be my wife?"

She waited a moment, she considered it. Her eyes went up to his. She still traced the outline of his tattoos. Without a word, she shook her head and looked down.

"I will ask you every day until you say yes," he told her. She glanced up and could not help but smile. He smiled back and kissed her chastely. He pulled back and played with her hair a short while. A comfortable breeze came in through the door. It cooled the sweat on their bodies. A woodpecker was somewhere close, working diligently.

"Can I have some?" he asked. She had nearly drifted off to sleep. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him. Her brow furrowed and she gave a tiny shake of the head to convey her confusion. He held up a finger and sat up. He rummaged through his things and came back to sit cross legged beside her. He pulled out some hair from the base of her neck. He separated it from the rest and draped it over a breast. She watched silently as he carefully began to braid it. He finished, fastened a tie at the end, and then held up a small blade. She nodded and he brought it to her neck. Carefully, with only minor tugging, he cut the hair from the base of her neck. A long, thin, blonde braid. He raised it in his hands and looked it over. With a large hand, he gently stroked her hair back at the forehead. It was calming. She closed her eyes again and he kissed her gently.

He kissed her for some time more before she sat up and gently nudged him off of her. He said nothing as she dressed.

"You will stay a while?" he asked.

"I need to go back or Talisa will worry. She thinks I get lost again," she smiled. She pulled her stockings back onto her feet.

"I will always find you," Ahanu responded. Sarah said nothing.

"You can call me Sarah," she told him. "It is my name."

"Sarah," he tried. "Sarah. No Wawetseka?"

"That too," she responded. She did not want him to do away with the name. He smiled. He put the breechcloth on and followed her outside. She put her hair back in a bun, covered her hair, and then put on her bodice. He held the braid of her hair in his hand.

"You will come back soon?" he asked. She nodded and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll have the wolf pelts ready for you soon."

"I like my fox blanket," she said. "It's nice and warm."

"These will be better," he promised.

She stepped closer to him and put her hands on her shoulders. She kissed him goodbye.

"Don't get lost!" he called after her. For the first time since their relationship had changed, she walked back to the village with a little smile on her face.

* * *

Sarah returned the next day, but almost turned to flee. She did not see Ahanu, but she found his friends seated around the fire, a fat animals roasting above the flames. She had taken one step backward when Melkedoodum caught sight of her. He smiled and waved her closer. Chogan and Akando turned their heads. Sarah continued closer. She did not have anything for Ahanu, and she wished she had brought something.

Melkedoodum made room for her and she greeted them with a nervous smile. Chogan greeted her with a heavy slab of meat at the end of a large knife.

"Do you have a plate?" she asked. He looked to the side, slapped the meat into the bowl and then she took it. The Indian men continued whatever conversation they had been having before she arrived. She looked around for Ahanu but she could not find him.

"Wawetseka," one of the strangers said. She looked at him. "Did you like last night?"

"Oh… yes," she said. There had been a lot of dancing. Singing and music. She ate and drank wine with Alice. Alice had left relatively early with Megedagik. Aiyana had left with her sisters. Chilaili ran off with a young man. Megedagik decided to leave with Alice shortly after they were alone. "I like the wine."

"Yeah?" the stranger asked. He got to his feet and walked over to retrieve a jug. He handed it to her and she took a small sip.

"Where is Ahanu?" she asked.

" _Ahanu?_ " the other stranger interjected.

"Ask… Etchemin?" she asked. She could not remember exactly what it was. Melkedoodum said something to the strangers and then cackled. The stranger shook his head and pressed his elbows to his knees.

"He will be back shortly," Akando told her.

"He might have us eave when he finds you here, though," Melkedoodum smiled. He laughed and Chogan elbowed him and gave a scowl. Sarah turned a bright red and looked to the hut.

"You will sit with us tonight?" Chogan asked. "You can meet my wives."

"Wives?" she asked. He nodded.

"Adsila and Galilahi."

"Wives… two?" she asked. Did she misunderstand the word? Chogan nodded. She frowned. She had not once considered that they practiced bigamy.

"You will sit with us?" he asked again.

"If Talisa allows it," she promised. In truth, she wanted to sit with Alice. During the day, Alice was with Megedagik, and Megedagik sat in the Indian King's lodge. Not just anyone could walk inside.

"Wawetseka."

She turned and stood at the sound of Ahanu's voice. He had a fresh layer of clear paste on his wounds. They were healing well. She did not think that there was much of a risk of infection anymore. She was slightly shocked when he walked up and greeted her with a kiss. She waited for jokes from his friends, crude jokes or a comment about their inappropriate relationship. None of them seemed remotely fazed.

"Look," Ahanu said and disappeared. He returned with his warclub. Wrapped around the decorated handle was her braid. "To keep me strong in battle."

It was the genuine affection in his smile that brought an affectionate lift to her own lips.

"I hope it will keep you safe," she said. He took her head and brought her back over to the fire.

"You will sit with us tonight?"

She sat down beside him.

"If Talisa allows it."

"Say you are with the Maskaanna."

"The Maskaanna!" a stranger called. "You know her?"

"She is my friend," Sarah answered. "We've always been friends. Before."

"Say you are with Maskaanna," Ahanu said again. "Sit with me."

"Ok," Sarah answered.

"Have you changed your mind?" he asked with a smile. He leaned in and nudged her. "To be my wife."

She laughed softly and shook her head.

"Maybe tomorrow," he answered. She shook her head. "No?"

"No," she told him, but she had a smile on her lips.

She remained with them most of the afternoon. She left as the music began in the distance to find Talisa and ask if she could sit with Alice. She was told she could, and Sarah did go to find Alice. She sat with them for a short while. She ate a bit, played with the little boy that was enraptured with Alice and made the little girl a necklace. She considered asking Alice if they could go somewhere so she could ask her opinion, but decided against it.

She left, telling Alice she needed to go speak to Talisa. She circled around the different bonfires. She found Ahanu seated beside his friends, with the addition of a rather beautiful female. She felt a twinge of annoyance and picked up her speed. Ahanu smiled when he saw her. He waved her over and she made sure to sit between he and the other female.

She feasted with them well into the night. She struggled to follow the conversation. They spoke quickly, loudly, often over each other. She made to leave more than once to go back to Alice, but Ahanu prevented her from leaving. He seized her wrist as she made to eave and gently pulled her back down and said, not unkindly, "stay."

She spoke a bit with his friends. Chogan's wives were very friendly.

At the end of the night, Ahanu walked Sarah back to Talisa himself.  _I don't want you to get lost,_ he said as he motioned for her to go to Talisa. Talisa thanked him for bringing her back to them.

"Good night," Ahanu told her.

"Good night," Sarah said. Ahanu lingered a few more moments before he turned and walked away.

"Come now, Child. You will see him tomorrow," Talisa told her.

"Can I sleep in tomorrow?" she asked Talisa as they walked home. Her eyes were heavy. She was very tired.

"Of course, sweet child. I'll tell the boys."

"Thank you," Sarah murmured. She leaned against Talisa and rested her head on her shoulder. She walked back, eyes closed. If she had opened her eyes when Talisa put her arm around her shoulders, she would have seen tears listening in the woman's eyes, a smile spreading across her face.

* * *

"Bring that to Gaho, sweet child?" Talisa asked Sarah. Sarah rubbed her eyes and looked toward the large basin of water. She had been allowed to sleep in as she had asked and had been left to stare into the flames, sipping on tea, or a little over a quarter of an hour. She put her cup to the side and collected the water basin. Talisa came over and patted her cheek gently. "Go to Nittawosew after and collect the honey?"

Sarah nodded.

"Can I go see Alice after?" she asked.

"Yes, but if you go see Askuweteau, you be careful ok?" she said severely.

"Ahanu won't hurt me," Sarah defended him.

"I only mean, he's a young man and you are a beautiful young woman," Talisa said affectionately. She fixed Sarah's bonnet, helping cover up her hair. "Go now, sweet child."

Sarah carried the water basin to Gaho. She was a very old woman that lived alone. She was well loved in the village and Sarah had taken to bringing her water. She called her a very long word that she had gathered meant, "pale girl with the hair like corn and eyes like water." Sarah would wait for her to complete her greeting, as if she needed any more assistance, and then be on her way. Only once did the old woman ever ask her to do an additional task.

The old woman greeted her again, Sarah asked if she needed something, and then went to Nittawosew for the honey. She left with a stack of shirts to give to Talisa. She brought it to her and then went on her way. She was halfway down the trail leading to Ahanu's home when Milap came jogging up to her.

"Salali!" he called. "Salali!"

"What?" she asked as she turned.

"Samoset needs you at the river," he told her. He stopped, hands to his knees and caught his breath.

"What?" she asked again.

"Samoset needs you, I didn't ask why."

Sarah looked back toward Ahanu's. She could make him walk with her.

"I'll go in a second," she said.

"No," Milap said and grabbed her shoulder. "He doesn't seem happy."

Sarah waited again and then sighed.

"Fine," Sarah sighed in English. "Which way?"

"Right down that way," Milap said. "I have to go talk to mama."

"Milap!" she called, but he was gone. She sighed and walked back down the other trail and around toward the water. Samoset had a special fishing spot. He spent days there with his friends. It wasn't a far walk, but it was long enough.

She continued on down the trail, trying to think what she might have possible done to anger Samoset. Talisa had talked him into letting her visit Ahanu, but he was not pleased for whatever reason.

"Hello."

She came to an abrupt stop and looked up. Her face tingled when she saw the savage standing in the trail in front of her. There were three, black lines on his cheek. He smiled. She stepped backwards and then turned. She ran a few steps ahead and then slowed. Another savage came into view. She turned, and one more came into view. She backed up slowly and then turned to run.

She did not fall once. She ran quickly. She leapt over rocks, avoided roots. But she was not fast enough. For a long time they played with her. Never once did she realize she was being herded. When they finally seized her, tied her feet and wrists, and flung her over a shoulder, it was a short walk to their camp.

She screamed the moment she hit the ground, but the knee that was pressed down on her stomach forced the air from her lungs with jarring force. She stared at the sky as her hands were tied, mouth opening and closing like a fish. By the time the oxygen she was sucking in through her mouth made its way down her throat and into her lungs, her bonnet was ripped from her head and forced between her lips. A strip of something was wrapped around her head and she was heaved into the air.

She was dropped to the ground with absolutely no concern. A near six foot drop down to the hard ground and once again she could not breath. The bonnet slowly worked its way to the back of her throat, and though she worked to keep her nose clear, tears dripped from her eyes as her terror grew. She could do little as her the shock left over from the fall began to dissipate, but pray that at least one more time, Ahanu would come to the rescue.

One of the savages with the black lines on his face bent down to straddle her. She tried to fight, but his body held down her legs, and another seized her arms and forced them above her head. The ease in which they subdued her, the absolute lack of any effect her feeble efforts had on them, was almost as humiliating as the blade the was placed at the top of her bodice. Buttons popped from the bodice. Fabric was torn. She began to weep.

Ahanu had to hurry.

Her nose stuffed up and she struggled to breath as the bodice was cut from her body. The savage spoke to her; he was asking her something, but she could not understand it. She was vaguely aware of laughter. The third not holding her crouched down beside them, picking up the bodice and looking at it with a disbelieving smile on his face. He held it out to the one kneeling on her wrists. His knees dug harder onto her as he took the bodice and examined it. They passed it around.

A brown hand yanked her shirt from her petticoat. It was yanked up. It covered her face. He tried to cough to push the bonnet forward in her mouth. It pressed to her throat and she fought the urge to gag. She panicked as the stained white fabric of her shirt pressed to her nose. Her shirt was torn from her petticoat. The petticoat was cut, but not beyond repair. There was laughter. The second was cut through completely. Slowly, the clothing was torn from her body.

Her heart beat so hard she thought it might rip her ribcage open from within. Nausea built up within her. Bile rose in her throat. Her nose was stuffed. The body on top of her was lifted a moment. She kicked at him with a bare leg. Thighs bear, body open and vulnerable. She screeched from behind the gag, covered face streaked with tears. Her ankle was seized roughly and her legs forced apart and subdued.

Then searing pain between her legs. She momentarily forgot about the pain in her wrists, the difficulty she was having breathing. It was a constant, burning, searing agony. She sobbed and cried. They made no attempt to quiet her. A moment or two of relief finally came. Words were said. Laughter. She thought it might be over. Maybe Ahanu would appear soon.

And then it began again. Her cries were in the back of her throat. Her lungs burned. There was another moment of relief and then the pressure on her wrists was gone. She thought it was over. Pressure returned to her bound wrists. The shirt was pushed back over her head so her face was cleared.

"I want to look at you," the savage told her with a smile. She blinked rapidly. Tears dripped from her eyes and she tried to speak. She was not even sure what she was trying to say. She moaned out in pain as he placed himself at her entrance. He pushed into her slowly. It was easier this time. Blood was a fine lubricant.

He leaned over her and moved his hips. His lips pulled back over his teeth, his eyes screwed shut. He looked like a horse. He was the youngest of the three. One was seated by the fire, chewing on a slab of meat. The man on top of her finished and pulled back.

"That was good," he said and patted the top of her head. The savage left her wrists. Another layer of binding was added and attached to a tree.

She thought she might be allowed to leave. The men returned to their fire. She turned her body toward the tree, trying to cover herself from view. They did not seem worried at all that she might get away. Once, as she struggled to reach for her petticoat, she was told to keep quiet.

The younger one came back over and knelt before her. He petted her hair a brief moment and then pushed her back down. He grew violent when she began to resist again. His friends did not come over to help. He pressed an elbow onto her forearms. His body weight was enough to keep her lower body at bay. He grunted in her ear. Flopped on top of her. He pulled off of her again. The others came back.

She was untied from the tree. The binds of her wrists and ankles were cut. She pulled her bonnet from between her lips and coughed loudly. She yanked her shirt back down over her head to cover herself. The youngest handed her the undamaged petticoat. Another gave her some water. She drank from the canteen deeply before she handed it over. The bodice was picked up and examined before it was handed back to her. She pulled it on. She struggled to tuck her shirt back into her one petticoat.

The damaged petticoat was balled up and thrown on the fire. She got up to her feet on shaky legs and pointed in the right direction. The bonnet was placed back on her head, by who she did not know. She walked back in the direction of the village. She could think of only one thing. It was absolutely amazing she found her way. She thought she might drop after each step she took.

She thought of nothing as she walked but getting to him, but the moment she saw his smiling face seated at his fire, she could think of nothing but how telling him what happened, was the last think on earth she wanted to do.

* * *

Ahanu looked up to see his yellow-haired woman walking toward him and a smile came to his lips. For a woman that did not wish to be his wife, she came to him quite often. He had little doubt that she'd join him by his fire quite soon.

"Wawetseka!" he called happily. His smile quickly slipped from his lips. The covering on her head was crooked. Loose strands of her yellow hair poked from the sides of the white fabric. Her tears were streaked and her face dirty. Her outer layer was open. She was trembling, walking slowly. He slowly pushed himself to his feet. His mouth was dry and his ears buzzed.

His friends stopped speaking and he nearly fell passing by them to get around the fire. She looked to him with pale eyes, reached out for a comforting embrace, but was greeted instead with hard, firm grips to her fragile biceps. He hunched over. His eyes burned into her. Though the thought had not yet crystalized, words did not form within his brain, he knew  _exactly_  what had happened.

"Who did this to you?" he asked roughly. She sputtered. Tears fell from her eyes and she flinched as he shook her. "Who did it!" he screamed.

"Etchemin," Melkedoodum tried to calm him. He placed a hand to his shoulder but Ahanu shrugged him off. Ahanu bent down and grabbed the bottom of her skirt. He yanked it upward. A cry left her but she did not run nor resist. She knew he would not hurt her.

He saw the few drops of blood that had made its way to stain her stockings. He needed only lift the skirt to her knees to see the evidence. His eyes hardly even examined the darkening skin. It was dark, angry, red and purple. He'd seen the bruises on the Maskaanna. It somehow looked far uglier on white skin. Seeing the discoloration on his Wawetseka was too much.

He turned to marched into his hut. He was shaking. He saw red. Melkedoodum followed him.

"You need to stop and consider what we should do," he tried to caution. Ahanu already had a knife at his side. He slid his club through the string of his breechcloth. He said nothing but bowled through Melkedoodum. His friend stumbled back from the door. Chogan had covered her with a deer skin blanket. He was talking to her softly.

"Where are they?" he asked her.

"I –" she sputtered. His frustration raged. He looked around with wide eyes. His breathing eratic. He reached out and grabbed her arm. He tugged her closer. She cried out again softly, pain and fear in her gaze, but he hardly processed it.

"Where?" he asked.

"Etchemin –"

"Shut up," he snapped. He looked back at Wawetseka. " _Where?_ "

She pointed and then raised her hand to her cheek. Sge dragged a finger down her cheek.

"The lines," she said.

"Weapons?" Ahanu asked. Chogan, Melkedoodum and Akando nodded. Ahanu reached out and seized her wrist. He all but dragged her through the forest. She put up no protests. She kept up with him, but that was mostly due to the momentum she received from his own force.

They were not too far away. A mile or so from Ahanu's camp. When they arrived, there were six men seated around a few. None older than Ahanu. The youngest about seventeen, but well built.

"Who did it?" he asked her. The seventeen-year-old's eyes opened wide as he pulled her into view and Ahanu knew who one of the culprits was.

"Him," she pointed at the youngest. She raised her hand and pointed at two more. A few of the men were getting to their feet.

"What do you want, Southerner?" one asked. It was not a male Wawetseka had pointed out.

"I have no quarrel with you," he said. He raised his club. "I want  _them._ "

"For what?" one of the three asked.

"Raping my woman," he responded.

"I didn't touch your woman," one of the Pine people replied.

Ahanu stepped forward. He began to move on the man. One un-involved man stepped in his way and shoved him back. No other words were said. No threats or chest banging. Ahanu swung the club and hit him square in the temple. He felt no guilt and when the adrenaline eventually faded, no guilt would come.

The man hit the ground in a hunch immediately. Not a cry. Not a shout. Just crumpled on the ground. Dead.

"Son of a bitch!" another cried. He swung his club again. The man advancing on him caught his wrist, but Ahanu had already withdrew his knife and sent the blade sinking deep into his right shoulder. He crumbled to the floor bleeding. He slid from the blade and on his way down, Ahanu ripped his club free and cracked him atop the head. And all at once, it was an even battle.

The youngest fled but hardly got twenty feet away. Melkedoodum through his tomahawk. It imbedded itself deeply into the center of his back. He hit the ground with a thud but his arms and legs continued to move. He tried to move to his feet but Ahanu was there, pressed a foot to his back and yanking the tomahawk free.

He cried out in pain. Begging for forgiveness. Weeping. He didn't mean it. He didn't mean it. He was sorry. Ahanu grabbed onto his head, yanking his neck back by the hair. He pulled as hard as he could. He dragged the blade across his forehead. He moved the blade to the side of the head and made another deep cut. Then the next. Then the back.

Blood oozed from his scalp and he howled in pain. It got into his eyes. Ahanu continued to pull at the scalp. He made another cut. The skin did not easily separate from the skull. Sometimes it wasn't easy. Finally, the skin began to separate and he cut the scalp free. He left him there to wail a bit longer. The scalping was not enough to kill him, but the blood oozing from his back would in time.

"This one?" he asked Wawetseka, pointing with the hand that held the boy's bloody scalp. She nodded, watching with pale skin and wide eyes. He bent down. The man moaned slightly, but it was doubtful he felt the deep cuts around the area of the scalp Ahanu wished to take. He peeled it away with more ease. The boy was moaning now. Low. Feeble.

"Who else?" Ahanu asked. Wawetseka pointed to the third. Ahanu bent down. He took the final scalp and looked at them in his hands. He stepped forward and held them out. His hands were coated with blood. It was still hot. Dar and red. She reached out and touched the thick black hair attached to the dripping scalps.

"I could not protect you," Ahanu told her with true remorse. She looked up at him. She stared a long moment. Lowering the scalps to her side she asked him, "Will you bring me home?"

He nodded and scooped her up.

"The bodies?" Akando asked. He walked over and sank a blade into the back of the scalpless, moaning boy's neck.

"Leave them," Ahanu responded. He had a blond head resting on his shoulder. She was so very light. That anyone could harm such a precious woman amazed him. It filled him with yet another rush of terrible, murderous rage.

He walked her in through the village walls and back to Talisa's hut. He received curious glances. Many saw the scalps in her hand. He had blood on his hands.

He said nothing. He simply walked passed her, stone faced and stoic. He brought her into the home and gently lowered her down to the furs. "I wish I could kill them again," he murmured to her. He placed his hands on either side of her face. Her white skin was stained red. He leaned in and placed a kiss to her mouth. Firm, but gentle and chaste.

"I will go find Talisa," he promised as he pulled back. She nodded slowly. She was in a bit of a daze.

"Ahanu?" she asked as he began to rise. He slowly lowered himself back down. He looked at her.

"You didn't ask today," she said. Her voice was soft, slightly hoarse. She was holding onto a purple, swollen wrist with a small and fragile hand. He stared. He fought his way through his confusion. "You said you'd ask every day."

"Oh," he said, a tiny smile coming to his lips. He moved closer and took her hands. He ran a hand over the purple the skin. He cradled her tiny wrists in his hand. "Wawetseka. Be my wife?"

Her lips elevated ever so slightly. Her eyes were hooded with exhaustion. Her eyes were puffy. Dirt and blood streaked with tears. She was so beautiful. He was full of rage again. That something like this happened. That he hadn't been there to stop it.

Slowly she shook her head.

"No," she answered. He nodded and looked down at her hands.

"I will go find Talisa or Samoset," he promised. "You're safe here."

"Ahanu?" she asked once he was on his feet.

"Wawetseka?" he asked. "Sarah?"

"You'll ask again tomorrow?" she asked.

"Every day," he answered. She did nothing but nod, looking off into the distance. He left her there to go find Talisa, wondering how long it would be before they came looking for him.


	17. XVII

XVII

He sent his friends home. They would have waited with him. They would have stood by him. Ahanu would not ask them to do that. Instead, he sat alone before his unlit fire, staring into the coals, bloody hands clasped before him. His face was grim, his eyes glassy. The deaths did not trouble him. He did not even consider what the consequences might be, neither for him nor the tribe. He could think only of the young pale girl curled up and crying in Talisa's hut.

He did not wallow in self-loathing. He could not possibly be with her every moment of every day. Guilt weighed on him to be sure. He had failed to protect her, but he had avenged her. But a white woman, a white captive, property of the tribe, would not inspire a great deal of sympathy from others in the tribe. That Powhatan had prohibited rape initially had been surprising, though not shocking. He doubted anyone would believe death an appropriate punishment.

He picked at his nails. They were dirty. His skin was stained red. He only wished he could kill them a second time. He need only wait an hour before he heard the group of men coming in through the forest. He glanced at his club but he knew if they meant to kill him he could do very little. It was not a death wish or some melodramatic act of love; shame so great he'd rather die than live with it. He had simply not considered, foolishly enough, until that very moment, that his own life was now in serious danger. He continued to look at his hands.

Only three came into view. The low number surprised him. He was pleased to see of the three that arrived, only two seethed in anger, young and lean bodied, breathing hard, muscles so taught they nearly shook. The other was clearly an elder of the tribe. Old, white haired, wrinkled. The three lines on his face were faded.

"We ask you come with us to the lodge of the Great Powhatan, Opechancanough," he said calmly. Ahanu looked over the two younger men. He looked back at his finger nails and picked at them silently. He was given a lot of time to respond. It surprised him, and he paused a few moments longer just to see if they would continue on in silence.

"Allow me to fetch my shirt. To cover my wounds."

"He does not even ask why!" one of the young men cried. "I should gut you right here. Right now."

"Our brothers' blood still on his hands," the other said. The older man silenced them. Ahanu returned and carefully put the shirt on over his head. He picked up his club and walked ahead of them. He did not say a word. He stroked the blood brain wrapped around the handle of his club.

"When Powhatan orders you killed, I'll do it myself," the one man said as they walked. "I'll gut you clean and feed your innards to my dogs. And I'll bring your skull back to my mother and serve her wine in it."

Ahanu said nothing. He walked forward, squeezing the handle of the club tightly. As they re-entered the village, there were more People of the Pine present. Many lingered outside of Powhatan's lodge, arms crossed, faces grim. There was a number of woman crying. One woman wailed. He felt nothing for them. He thought only of his pale haired woman. Sweet Wawetseka.

"Why!" a woman wailed at him. "Why did you kill my boy."

Ahanu said nothing. He stepped inside the lodge to find it mostly full of tribal leaders. Some woman remained. Chief wives and especially wise women. He spotted Aiyana. She sat beside Megedagik. The Maskaanna was there as well. She was settled against the far wall, not far from Megedagik, but separated from the rest. She sat there, looking rather content, a small wooden cup in her hands and a large jug resting beside her. She watched curiously. She sat up when she saw him.

"Askuweteau," Powhatan called from his throne. Three of his wives remained with him. One he had never seen before. "Tell me it is not so."

"I cannot obey you, Opechancanough," he answered. "I have done what they accuse me of."

A murmur went through the lodge.

"Murderer!" Annawan screamed. "He admitted it himself. All that is left for him to do is name his accomplices and his life may be ended."

"Please," Powhatan said, hand raised, but it was not a request. He addressed Ahanu next. "Askuweteau. I am troubled."

"I have done what they said, but I am without guilt. No one aided me."

Some unhappy people shouted. All the voices ran in together. Ahanu heard nothing. Powhatan silenced them with the rise of a hand.

"Explain."

"They attacked a woman I care greatly for, raped her, against your order, and sent her back to me bloody and bruised. I acted as any man here would."

"You accuse my son of such barbarity?" an older man stepped forward. His face was contorted with rage.

"She pointed them out herself," Ahanu stood firm.

"And where is she?" he continued to rage. "Where is this bloody and bruised girl."

"She is currently with the King's sister," he answered boldly. He turned and looked the grieving father directly in the eye. "Where I left her. At her home."

Powhatan leaned forward. He placed a hand to his chin.

"The pale one?" he asked, but while some laughed in disbelief and others roared in outrage, Powhatan's face remained serious.

"Yes," he answered. Powhatan leaned backward. He gently touched a young wife's hair. She jumped when he suddenly and without warning, shouted, "Silence! Ogin. Get Numees. Bring her and the girl to me."

"You would pardon him for the sake of a white girl? A prisoner?" someone cried.

"Silence!" he shouted again. "This girl was a gift to me, by this man's own brother," he pointed a hand at Ahanu. "A gift that I presented to a valued member of our society. And she took this child and took her as her daughter. And if what Askuweteau says is true, his only crime, is not asking my permission first."

A hush fell over the crowed. "Ogin. Go."

The girl ran from the lodge.

"Powhatan."

Everyone turned to look at Megedagik. Ahanu's heart was pounding in his chest.

"Megedagik, my friend. Have you something to say?"

"If my word means anything, I can vouch for the boy's story," he said, coming to his feet. "He came to me, not long ago, about a group of young men, People of the Pine, that he had chased off after a failed attempt to rape the young pale girl."

"Liar!" one of the People of the Pine yelled. Those not of the Pine let out a low rumble of disapproval. Megedagik was beyond reproach.

"Know to whom you speak!" Powhatan thundered. He looked at Megedagik. "Did you see this attack?"

"I did not, but Askuweteau came to me about the incident and demanded something be done. Admittedly, I did nothing."

Powhatan nodded grimly. He looked back to Ahanu. Ahanu kept his eyes forward. His jaw was set, his eyes were hard.

"What is your claim on the girl?" Powhatan asked. Ahanu simply looked at him. He did not know what to say. He had no plans to speak. "Will this girl tell me you've taken her as your wife?"

Ahanu swallowed thickly. It was the only way he could escape punishment. If he had no claim, he had no right to exact justice on her behalf. He was not an injured party, and yet six were dead… three that had done nothing but come to the defense of their friends.

"Askuweteau?"

"The girl is nothing to him!" someone shouted. Ahanu did not turn his head to see who spoke. He knew he had three black lines down the side of his cheek. Powhatan looked at Ahanu and Ahanu knew that even if Powhatan was aware the white girl did not return his affection _,_ she was not nothing to  _him._

"She put him up to it! The lying witch. She's cursed! Cursed! She bewitched and seduced those boys. Bringing them to their deaths!"

"She wasn't raped!"

A number of shouts in agreement joined in a chorus and Ahanu closed his eyes to try and keep his fury in check. When he heard the shout to the contrary, it took him a moment to realize it was not the sound his own voice, but another, and that of a woman. The room hushed, not out of respect, but out of surprise, as the Maskaanna stepped forth. Megedagik stepped forward to silence her, but she was already walking toward him. Her hands grabbed onto his forearms and she looked up at him, repeating to him, "Do they mean, Sarah? Do they mean Sarah? What happened. What happened to Sarah?"

"Forgive her, Powhatan, she is close to the girl. They are from the same village."

"Just quiet her or she leaves," he responded.

"Maskaanna," Megedagik said with surprising gentleness. "Alice, go sit there. Alice."

She seemed to respond to her true name but she looked at Ahanu and asked softly, "Did you hurt her?"

"I killed for her," he responded. As Megedagik brought her back to her jug of wine in the back of the hut, she whispered rapidly to him, imploring him to explain in words she could understand what was going on.

Ahanu turned as the lodge was filled with a rumble of murmurs. His breath escaped him when he saw her, brought forward with a blanket of red fox furs draped over her shoulders, wearing a pretty dress of white doe skin. Beside her was Samoset and on the other side, Talisa. Rowtag followed behind, looking pale, eyes glassy.

In Talisa's hands were the bundle of clothing the silly girl had worn since the beginning of her captivity. He could see the blood on the leg coverings. The outer layer he knew to have been sliced through with a knife. There was a single bruise on her face. One that had formed recently. The skin had simply been red when he dropped her off.

Her hair was still covered with the white fabric. Megedagik had to hold the Maskanna in place. Powhatan would not tolerate a second disruption, no matter their relation. A strong arm around her middle was all it took for Megedagik to keep her in place.

She was brought forward before the king, eyes swollen and wet, but she kept her shin lifted. Even as her lower lip trembled and her eyes swelled with tears, she kept her head up.

"Ah, the Little Pale One," Powhatan greeted. "Good to see her out of those rags."

"They were cut from her," Talisa spoke. Her voice shook. There were tears in her eyes. She had an arm around Wawetseka's shoulder, but those pretty blue eyes, the color of the sky, were directed toward him. He tried to smile at her, but it came out a pained grimace. She held the fox furs more tightly around her.

"How well can she speak?"

"Well enough to be understood, Opechancanough, Powhatan," Samoset answered.

"Askuweteau, stand a ways behind her. So, she cannot see you."

Ahanu obeyed the order silently. He stood behind her, looking at her pretty covered head. He had no regrets. If he were to be flogged, whipped, beaten, killed… he had no regrets. He would do it again. She turned her head to watch him go but he did not look at her. He settled back beside a family he knew was supportive. Before their subjugation, and she had been traded back to them for a large wolf pelt taken by a long dead ancestor, the People of the Pine had taken their daughter slave. He crossed his arms over his chest. He looked at his nails. Blood and dirt.

"Come closer, Little Pale One," he beckoned her closer. The fox furs were taken from her shoulder and she was nudged toward him by Samoset. Immediately, the bruises on her arms were clear to all those in the lodge. Her skin was so very pale. Paler than any white woman in the village. And on that pale, white skin, fair as snow, were dark, angry bruises. Red, purple, blue. It reminded him of the Maskaanna, but she had been covered nearly head to toe. Face, neck, arms… But it had not lit such fire in his chest. His finger nails, caked with blood and dirt, dug into his biceps hard as he watched her.

"Closer still," Powhatan chuckled. "I will not hurt you." He was gentle, as if speaking to a child. He ran his fingers over the bruises on her arms. Someone had kneeled on her upper arms. Her wrists had been bound. There was rope burn. More bruises. One of Powhatan's wives reached out and touched her arms. They had frowns on their faces. They turned to look each other, murmuring with shakes of their heads and concern in their eyes. Powhatan was not one to be swayed by his wives.

"Tell me what happened," he ordered gently. He lifted his eyebrows when she said nothing. "Say to me," he said, tapping his lips. "What happened."

She swallowed thickly and looked back at Ahanu. He once again tried to smile, but it was a pained grimace.

"They… make me…" she hiccupped. She turned and looked over everyone in the lodge. She looked back and her head dipped. She forced her head back up. "They make me… I don't… have the word."

"You did not want?" Powhatan asked, once again, as if he were speaking to a young child.

"No!" she replied. "No," she sniffled. Ready to cry.

"Tell me, and tell me true," Powhatan urged. "What is Askuweteau to you?"

"Ahanu?" she whispered, so very softly, so very truly, and he felt his heart sing. As naively as it was meant, as genuine, as innocently, it was all he needed to hear.

"Ahanu," Powhatan murmured with a smile. "Is he… special to you?"

"Special?" she repeated crudely.

"Important… different…."

"Important," she said. "Ahanu. He… protect. Care for me." She turned her head to look back at him. She turned her attention back to Powhatan. "Brings me food. The blanket. He make. The wolves."

"Ah, yes, the wolves," Powhatan nodded. "Go back to Talisa now."

She stepped away from his throne and Talisa was there to drape her in the fox furs. She found the Maskaanna on the other side of the lodge with Megedagik. Her lips parted as if to speak to her, but she then fell silent. Megedagik released his white woman, and she went to Sarah's side. The two embraced each other warmly.

"It sounds to me the girl was raped and this young man came to her aid. A young man in love is a dangerous thing, indeed," Powhatan said.

"He had no right! She is not his wife. He has no claim," the father seethed.

"But he does," Rowtag suddenly said. Samoset turned his head with a vicious warning on his face, but Rowtag stepped forward. His voice trembled as he addressed the king directly. "It was supposed to be a secret, but…my uncle didn't want him around Alawa. Said Etchemin only wanted one thing. But Alawa wanted to see him, and I helped them, sneak around that is, and uh, Alawa, she told me, she said they were married, but in secret, until Etchemin was able to come forward with a proper tribute for her."

"Is that true?" Powhatan asked. Ahanu began to answer but his hand was raised. "Little Pale One?"

The Maskaanna had her wrapped in her arms. She petted the side of her head gently. She was crying again softly and the Maskaanna murmured to her gently. Ahanu waited, heart pounding. A bead of sweat dropped down his temple. It was suddenly oppressively hot.

"Is he your husband?"

She looked at Ahanu. He simply stared back, waiting. She looked toward one of the seething People of the Pine. She looked over their faces with her pink, puffy eyes. She looked back at Powhatan. She nodded, glassy eyes angled down. The Maskaanna frowned, she looked at Wawetseka, then back at him.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Y-Yes," she all but whispered. She cleared her throat. "Yes, he is."

No one said anything. Samoset looked down. Talisa bit her bottom lip and reached out to touch Wawetseka's face.

"There you have it," Powhatan said. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "She was raped. He came to the aid of his wife. For acting without permission, a half day on the pole and thirty lashes."

A breath escaped Ahanu.

"A half day! Thirty lashes!" another sputtered. "For the murder of six? For an act against a  _white woman_? A prisoner!"

"I have said already this is not any white woman," Powhatan responded. His voice was serious. It left no room for argument. That did not stop the People of the Pine.

"This… this is unacceptable. Our sons dead, our warriors butchered, for the virtue of this boy's white  _whore._ "

A knife was drawn and Samoset was suddenly face to face with the speaker. Ahanu said nothing. He watched silently.

"Watch. Your. Tongue," he ordered. "Or I'll cut it out."

"You may try," the aggressor spoke.

"There will be no blood spilt. I have spoken. If anyone wishes to challenge that order, I'll have your throat slit outside for all to witness."

No one said a word.

"Askuweteau. The pole," Powhatan said.

"Forget your token punishment," Anawan finally spoke. He rose to his feet in the back. He had been seated, mostly silent until now. "We have paid our tribute. We will depart to our own lands. Illanipi, Iye, Lenno."

He turned and walked from the lodge. The others followed. Powhatan's guards prepared to follow, but he raised a hand.

"Let them go," he said dismissively. He looked at Ahanu and shook his head. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble for me."

"I'm sorry, Powhatan, Opechancanough," he finally spoke. "I… Seeing her… like that…"

He looked at her. Powhatan grunted.

"The pole then," he said. Ahanu nodded. "And once you've recovered, since it's all out in the open, the girl can move to your lodge. It would be odd if you kept separate now. I am sorry, Talisa, but a wife must live with her husband."

She nodded without a word.

"Makkapitew, the lash."

Ahanu looked at the large man to the right of Powhatan. His hand closed around the grip of the whip and a smile spread across his lips. Ahanu took a long, shuddering breath.  _Token_ punishment, in deed.

* * *

Alice returned home with Sarah. Megedagik was speaking with Samoset behind them, and Talisa was wiping away tears. She had understood little from the lodge. She knew Ahanu had been in trouble and she knew the only way to save him was to say she was his wife. Despite knowing exactly what she said, it was with shock and dismay that she watched Talisa begin to gather what belongings she had accrued since her captivity began. Talisa was crying softly.

"What are you doing?" she asked her. Talisa shook her head and screwed her eyes shut. Large tears fell down her cheeks. Sarah's brow furrowed more deeply. "Talisa, what are you doing?" her voice grew louder, more fearful.

"You must go now, child," she finally answered. "To Etchemin's fire."

"But… but why?" she asked. She kneeled beside Talisa. Her heart was racing. Talisa looked up with sad eyes. She reached out and touched her cheek.

"Because a wife lives with her husband," she responded.

"But I… But I only…"

"Hush. If you value his life, hush, child," she said softly. Sarah's lower lip trembled.

"I don't want to leave though," she whispered. She was suddenly struck with an overwhelming fear of being separated from her. Talisa rose and went back into the lodge. Alice kneeled beside her. Sarah clutched at her hand. She looked at Alice with wet eyes. "I only… I only said it because… they'd hurt him."

"I know, Sarah," Alice comforted.

"I am no wife to a savage," she vowed. "We… I made no vows. Made no promise. We… we did …  _that._ But only because… because he did not want to be friends, he wanted me for his wife, but I always said no. I... a fornicator, yes, but no savage's wife."

"Sarah," Alice whispered. She cupped her cheeks. "Shhh, shhh," she cooed. "Calm yourself."

"But I don't want to leave," Sarah rushed out. "I don't want to leave home."  _Home._ It didn't even sound odd.

"Talisa cares for you. You will see her still," Alice promised. "I am sure of it."

Sarah nodded. She wiped her tears away. "I just… I…" she broke down into sobs. Her legs hurt. Her wrists. Her eyes were puffy. Her nose stuffed up.

Talisa came back from the lodge.

"I have another dress for you," Talisa said. She sniffled. "And extra moccasins."

Sarah nodded and wiped her cheeks. She sniffled and turned her head to look at Samoset. He was speaking to Megedagik. It did not stop her from interrupting them.

"Oh, Samoset?" she asked softly.

"Yes, child?" he asked.

"What did you need? Earlier."

He frowned and shook his head.

"Earlier. Milap said you needed me. At the river."

He nodded slowly. He blinked rapidly.

"Yes… it wasn't important," he said. "Excuse me."

Without a word he walked off. Sarah watched after him. She put her head to Alice's shoulder as she watched Talisa finish packing her things. She did her very best not to cry.

* * *

Alice walked with her outside the village walls. Talisa was carrying her belongings. They got a few glances. The entire village knew what had happened by now. The People of the Pine had all left. The bodies cleaned up. Many did not think it would be the end of it.

Megedagik followed behind. He seemed hesitant to leave Alice alone. Sarah's body ached. Every step she was reminded about what happened. She just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. She only wished it was in her own bed, to the smell of whatever it was Talisa was cooking that night.

When they arrived, Talisa put the basket before the lodge.

"He will be injured when he returns. I will show you how to care for his wounds," she said. Sarah nodded and listened. Alice waited beside her. Megedagik waited patiently. He was examining the wolf pelts.

"Can't I go home," Sarah told Talisa as they finally stood and prepared to say goodbye. Talisa smiled and cupped her cheeks.

"I will see you every day," she promised. "And some nights, you will stay. But for now, you must be here."

Sarah nodded.

"Sleep well, my sweet child," Talisa said. She placed a kiss to Sarah's forehead. She fixed her bonnet and a strand of hair back beneath the white fabric. Her brother hands trembled as she fussed with the white fabric. It was very much the same way her mother would when she walked to town on a blistery day. More tears swelled up in her eyes. Talisa finally lowered her hands and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Sarah suddenly called. "Can you… make me some tea before you go?"

Talisa smiled and silently took to the task. When Sarah finally had the cup in her hands, it was far too soon. She hugged Alice for some time. She rocked her back and forth and eventually brought her inside to get her settled down. Alice had always been her friend. She had always been the one who had the better advice. She was the strong one, the smart one, the beautiful one. Sarah did not know if she could survive if Alice had not been taken that day.

Finally, Megedagik came to the door of the little home. Her home now. With her savage husband. Alice asked for just a moment more. The older man nodded and stepped away to afford them more privacy.

"I am so sorry, Sarah," Alice whispered.

"I will survive," she answered softly. "But I am no savage's wife," she repeated her words from earlier.

"You made no vows," Alice reminded her. "There was no ceremony. Whatever their ways, they do not follow the true faith."

"Then what sin," Sarah lamented softly. "I am to lie with a man every night. A man not my husband. And to… to bear his children?"

"Do not think on it now," Alice soothed her with a gently hand to the side of the head. "Right now, you should rest."

"I wish I could be as strong as you, Alice," Sarah said. Her eyes were angled down to the floor.

"Sarah, I –"

"Maskaanna," Megedagik said. Once again, his large body filled the door of the hut. Alice broke off with a silent nod. She tried to smile at Sarah. She raised her hands to cup her cheeks. She kissed her cheeks.

"She will be safe here alone?" Sarah heard Alice ask Megedagik as she stepped from the hut.

"Askuweteau's friends are not far. They'll watch until he returns," Megedagik responded. A small smile came to Sarah's face as she laid down on the pelts. She stared at the tea cup from the floor. The basket Talisa had prepared for her was a few feet away. A bird chirped. A woodpecker was working silently somewhere close. The day grew hot.

Slowly her eyes fluttered closed. Soon, she fell into a much needed sleep.

* * *

More people came to Ahanu as he hung from the thick leather ropes that attached him to the punishment pole, than spoke to him in an average day. Only one had anything bad to say. The rest congratulated him. Taking down six men by himself to protect his woman. Other's congratulated him on securing the pale haired girl. Chilaili arrived with some water for him. She put it to his lips and told him that his pretty pale wife had been moved to his lodge and that his friends were making sure no angry People of the Pine would return to hurt her. He thanked her, she gave him a bit more water, and he left.

The sun beat down hard on his back. It was the end of the afternoon, but the blood that oozed from the burst skin on his back mingled with the sweat on his bare back. It stung something horrible.

He felt guilty about taking credit for the whole of the attack.  _Seven wolves and six People of the Pine._ He reminded them he did not kill all the wolves himself. He could say nothing about the People of the Pine. He would not risk repercussions falling down upon his dearest friends.

When the young warrior, a son of Powhatan, came to release him, he was utterly exhausted. His dropped to his knees as the leather binds were cut. The wounds from the wolves had reopened. Blood oozed down his arm. The gashes on his chest were raw and open.

He walked back to his home, and once again was stopped often. Most gave him congratulations.  _Proud you are one of us,_ many said,  _you'll be a staple of society soon enough._

He was as grateful as he could be. All he could think about was the pretty pale woman settled into his home. Despite the pain his body itched with desire, his chest flushed with happiness. He had  _exactly_ what he wanted. Yet his body ached. He did not want to see the pain on her face. This woman did not want him as her husband. He did not understand it. He tried to, but he could not. He did not think he could bear seeing her cry at being his wife.

When he arrived he found Melkedoodum at the fire. It was unlit and he was widdling. Wawetseka was sleeping. She had been sleeping for some time. He thanked his friend and walked over to the hut.

She was curled up. A small lift came to his lips when he saw the fox furs wrapped around her securely. She was sweating. Her forehead glossy, but he chose not to disturb her. He tried to apply the paste to his arm, but his cry of pain awoke her. Slowly she sat up, registering her surroundings, and looked to him.

He forced a smile and pressed the paste back to his arm. Slowly, she came toward him. She took the paste from him and gently applied to his arm. Neither said a word. She put it to his chest next. Her hands were cool.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmured to her. He looked up and offered a small smile.

"Why?" she asked. She had a little furrow to her brow. He did not say anything. She moved to his back next. He bit back the noises he wished to make. He would  _not_ show weakness before his unwilling wife. "Do you have something for me to cook?" she asked him.

"Oh, no… I have food," he said. He cursed himself. He should have provided her with food the moment she woke. He got her some salted meat. They ate silently. He looked at her nervously. He repeated, unsure what else to say, "I am sorry."

She looked at him again. She said nothing again.

"Will you want me tonight?" she asked him. She picked up her food and put it back down.

"What?" he asked.

"Will you want me tonight?" she repeated.

"I… if you are well enough," he answered.

"I am your wife," she repeated simply. "I will do what you want."

He frowned and swallowed thickly. These pale invaders were strange indeed. He scooted closer to her. He touched her cheek.

"You saved my life," he told her softly. "I am indebted to you."

"Do you want me tonight?" she asked.

"Every night," he answered. "But –"

"I want them out of me," she cut him off. He said nothing. He just looked at her. He nodded. His body ached, but this was for her. Gently he pushed her back. She fell onto the furs with no protest. He muscles trembled as he held himself above her, but he showed no outward side of his pain.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you again," he vowed. "I promise."

He pulled at the string of her bonnet. He wanted to see her hair. She said nothing. He saw a deep sadness in her eyes. She placed her hands on his shoulders. She was careful not to touch his wounds. He pushed up her dress. He liked seeing her like this, but he would miss her other clothing. He spread her legs gently.

"You're so beautiful," he told her. She said nothing. She closed her eyes and her fingers dug into her shoulders. Slowly, he pushed himself inside of her. What had been his was now shared. He screwed his eyes shut. Never had he felt such possession. He was full to the brim with possessive anger. But he had killed them, presented her with their scalps, and here she was now, beneath him.

She grimaced as he entered her. He almost stopped. But she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. One of her legs actually touched the back of his calf. Little whimpers escaped her as he thrust. Moans of pain, pleasure, he did not know. He continued until he climaxed. He finished himself deeply inside of her. He wondered what a child might look like. Would they look like her? Him. Both?

He kissed her forehead. He stroked her yellow hair. He removed himself from her. He rolled onto his back and another grimace and ripple of pain coursed through him. He pushed up and stretched his back, hoping to alleviate the pain. She sat up slowly. He did not see her gather the materials, but soon, a damp, cool rag was placed to his back.

"Thank you, Wawtseka," he murmured softly. She gently saw to his wounds.

"I should be caring for you," he lamented. She shook her head. A long moment passed. "I know… you do not wish to be my wife," he said. He turned to look at her. Her eyes swelled with tears and she looked down. She continued to gently stroke his skin with the rag.

She made him a cup of tea. It was from Talisa no doubt. He smiled as he laid down, tired, ready for rest, the pain subsiding some.

"Wawetseka," he asked. He reached out and touched her hand. She was by the fire inside the hut. The sun was beginning to set. Her eyes were sad, but bright and blue. "Will you be my wife?" he asked her.

Her lips twitched upward. She looked down, but her eyes did not seem so sad. She squeezed his hand tightly. She shook her head.

"No," she said softly. He smiled at her. A tiny lift of her lips.

"I will ask again tomorrow," he vowed. She nodded.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	18. XVIII

XVIII

Talisa returned home and slept, and so it was sometime later that she became aware of Milap's prolonged and unusual absence. Samoset asked her when she awoke where her youngest surviving child might be. When she was unable to give him an answer, she saw concern etch into his leathery face. She knew her brother well enough to know something was wrong.

"He must be off with friends. Where else would he have gone?" she asked. Samoset shook his head. He looked quite disturbed.

"I will find him," he said and stalked off. As the day grew long, and the sun began to make its way behind the trees to the west, her gnawing concern bloomed into near hysteria. He would not stay away so long. Her sweet, pale child knew of no reason he might have run off. When she and Askuweteau arrived for some food and drink, she could think of no reason why he might have left. Rowtag spent most of the day searching. Samoset as well. Askuweteau offered his assistance, but Talisa would hear none of it. He was only just beginning to recover from the wolves, and he had been through must the past week.

When the sun rose the next morning, she was sick with worry. Rowtag went out again. He spoke to his friends, to Milap's friends. None had seen him in two days. Samoset refused to go to Megedagik. There were too many people in the village, and too little time had passed to make it a communal problem. He was in a hut somewhere, having too much to check in, but even as he told her this, she saw the worry in his eyes. It was his pride that was the motivating factor of his decision. He disliked having to go to the warrior for aid in his own familial business. But Samoset was a fighter, not a tracker, and if anyone might find her boy, it was the seasoned warrior from the West. Even with Powhatan's own proclamation from long ago, that he was an official, full-fledged member of the tribe, Samoset still saw an outsider when looking at him, despite the respect he had for him.

So, when Samoset went out to check their fishing grounds, Talisa wondered down the path toward Megedagik's hut. She arrived their just past mid-morning, and feared she might find it unoccupied. She was relieved to find a fire burning outside and the Maskaanna seated before the flames. If the Maskaanna was here, Megedagik would not be far.

Her eyes were glassy, lids heavy, and cheeks flushed. A cup in her hands, a large jug beside her, she had a new dress on. Golden in color, very little had been done to the hide, but it was a beautiful dress. The sleeves were shirt, perfect for the coming summer heat, and other than some fringe on the ends, it left her arms bare. It was not until moments like this that she realized just how pale these invaders were. She would have to ask if they had sun in their lands.

"Maskaanna?" she asked. The young woman did not look up from the dying flames and the black charred wood. "Maskaanna?" she asked a bit more loudly. The girl looked up in surprise. "Where is Megedagik?"

"Sarah?" she asked instead of answering.

"Is well. Megedagik?" she answered. Maskaanna jabbed her chin at the hut. "Will you retrieve him for me?"

"No," she answered with surprising obstinacy. She raised the jug and carefully raised the red liquid into the cup. "I will not go in there."

She lowered the jug with shaky arms.

"I must see him," Talisa reasoned.

"Then you go in," she replied. She lifted the cup to her lips. Talisa frowned, but moved passed the fire and toward the door flap. She stopped when she heard the low groans, grunts, and mons. The Maskaanna spoke behind her.

"We have one wife," she said. Talisa turned to look at her. She raised one finger, her gaze was fixed lazily on the fire. " _One._ For always. Two wives." She shook her head slowly, lazy disgust on her fine features. If her sweet pale girl only had the Maskaanna's coloring, she would be prettier than the grieving mother. The Maskaanna then said a word in her tongue. Whatever the word, it was not friendly.

Talisa moved to sit beside her. The Maskaanna looked over at her, eyes slightly wide and suspiciously curious.

"Have you seen my boy? My youngest son? Milap?"

"I don't think so. I wouldn't know," she answered.

"I cannot find him," Talisa confided with a sad smile. "I can't find my little boy."

They fell into silence. The Maskaanna looked down at her cup. She examined her nails a short while. This was the first time Talisa had really looked at her hands since the bandages had come off. Many of her fingernails would never be the same. It was a shame. She had such dainty hands.

The Maskanna placed her cup down by her feet and stood. She walked to the hut and stepped inside without breaking stride. Talisa heard mumbles, but could make out no words. She returned a moment or two later and sat down without a word. By the time she had picked up her cup and took her first sip, Megedagik and Aiyana were leaving the lodge.

Aiyana did not stop to make conversation. She stomped away, clearly displeased with the interruption. The Maskaanna seemed entirely indifferent. Megedagik examined the white woman a moment, eyes hard as stone, before he looked to Talisa. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin. He was breathing a bit heavier than normal, and he had a blanket draped over his shoulder.

"Forgive me, Megedagik. I would not have come if it were not an emergency."

"I know, Numees," he answered. "What can I do?"

"I cannot find Milap. It's been a two days since I have seen him. I last saw him… after my girl's attack, I was so preoccupied. I hadn't even realized I had not seen him."

"A large celebration," Megedagik said gently. "So many friends we so rarely see. The boy is here."

"It is unlike him. His friends have no seen him."

"Milap has great promise, great skills," Megedagik comforted. The boy is well. I promise you. Wait another day or so and then come back to me. If he is unfound, I will give my aid. I vow it."

"But – "

"Numees," he cut her off. "Only two days. People disappear for much longer during the spring festival. He is all but a man now. Do not shame him."

Talisa nodded slowly, but closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding and her insides trembled.

"And if I cannot find him, I will go to Powhatan and have a search party convened."

"Thank you," Talisa murmured. The Maskaanna was observing them closely, slowly sipping at her cup.

"He is here and he is safe. I promise you,"

Talisa nodded.

"Good day and light heart," he said to her as she readied to leave.

"And to you, Hassun."

She began to walk away, heart heavy. Megedagik was right, but there was a knot in her stomach that she could not shake.

"Maskaanna," she heard Megedagik say gruffly. "Inside. Now."

Whatever was said after that, Talisa did not care to hear.

* * *

She carried the jug and cup into the lodge, and he allowed her to place them carefully into her corner before reaching for her. She did not resist, but a little grunt of protest did leave her. His body still pulsed with desire, his completion having been momentarily interrupted, and if she thought nothing of interrupting him with his wife, then she could take her place. He pulled her backward by the hips and flipped her over. He liked looking at her, as much as he enjoyed having her on her hands and knees.

Today she chose to look off to the side with those glassy eyes. Somedays, she would glare up at him until he finished. He knew she did not desire his attentions. He was not one to force himself on a woman. He never had; he had no plans to do so in the future, but this woman belonged to him. She was not property of the tribe. She was not property of Powhatan. By Powhatan's own word, she was his prisoner, alone. And if this obstinate little white woman did not want the honor of being his wife, then she could be his slave. It made no difference to him.

He slid his hands up her waist, bunching it up just below her breasts. He thrust hard, angling his body so that he could elicit a reaction from her. It worked, and she bit down on her bottom lip hard to bite down her moan. Her warped fingernails dug into his lower arms and her back arched. As the gust of air escaping her nose slowed, she peeled her lips back, baring her grinding teeth.

He leaned down to place his lips to hers and she turned her face to the side. Angry, yet spurred on by her obstinance, he removed a hand from her waist and grabbed her by the chin. He forced the kiss on her, but her resistance lasted only a moment. He pressed her back to the furs with his kiss, thrusting into her with force.

His mouth was still on hers as he climaxed, and he made a point to remain inside of her for a few moments after. Lazily, he bowed his head. He breathed in against the soft skin of her throat. A delicate neck. A great spirit had been looking over her when Matchitehlew had wrapped his hands around her throat in an attempt to end her life.

His lips pressed to the skin softly. A hand slid into her hair and gently tilted her head to the side. He pressed his lips to her skin once more. She lay passive beneath him. When he finally removed himself from her, he allowed her to go about her routine of cleansing herself of him. He took no offense. Once finished, she rummaged in the corner.

"Tea?" she asked. He waved a hand. She set up the pot and leaned back. She stared at the fire with large, glassy eyes. She suddenly asked, "the boy will be found safe?"

"He is with a friend somewhere," he answered. "Parents often misplace their children during such a celebration. And Milap is fifteen. Talisa is overreacting."

"In my village, when a child goes missing, he is in danger," she mused.

"My tobacco," was all he said in response. He watched her fingers work at packing the pipe. Soft, delicate hands, ruined perhaps, but they told his story. He sometimes saw her staring down at them. She hid them when others looked down. He sometimes thought of telling her she should be proud of those hands, proud of what they had accomplished, but then he remembered his own sin. He had robbed her of her child almost as much as Matchitehlew, and his tongue went silent.

"This is not your village," he reminded her. She held out the pipe. He took it from her and was surprised when she did not immediately retreat to her corner. She sat beside him on her knees, sitting back on her feet. Her hands were clasped in front of her and she let out a deep sigh.

"I know that."

He sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. She had a sloped nose. Delicate. The nostrils were small, it was slightly upturned. He could see where the break had been. It was a tiny little bump on the ridge of her nose.

"Where is he?" she suddenly asked.

"As I said," he responded, tearing his eyes away from her. "With a friend or –"

"Not him," she cut him off.

The lodge fell silent. A log cracked and she poured her tea. Afterward, she knocked the fire out. It was too hot inside of the lodge. Still, she did not move away. She simply sipped silently at her tea. He had wondered when she would ask. He was surprised it took so long.

"I am not sure," he answered honestly. She nodded thoughtfully. She continued to sip at her tea, but as her lips closed around the edge of the cup, her eyes closed and she let out a slow, shuddering breath.

"Alice!"

She looked up toward the tent flap at the sound of her white name. She heard the cry again and a tiny smile tilted her lips upward. Even her eyes, glassy and sad, had a sudden, slight happiness in them. She carefully put her tea down to the side and got to her feet. He remained behind, sucking on his pipe with closed eyes, as the Maskaanna hurried out to greet his young son.

* * *

Sarah carried the basket back home early in the morning. Talisa was outside sewing, but she looked concerned. Even when she looked up from her work and put a smile on her face, jumping up to her feet to embrace Sarah, Sarah could see the look of pain concealed in her eyes. Sarah dropped the basket and accepted the embrace.

"He has not yet returned?" she asked. Talisa pulled back, lips pressed together, turned downward, eyes heavy.

"Not yet," she whispered, but her voice quivered. She pat Sarah's bonnet gently. "Come sit with me, child."

Sarah picked up the basket and sat down beside her at the fire. Talisa returned to her work.

"Ahanu made these for you," Sarah said and retrieved the items. There was a blanket he cut from one of the wolf pelts. Sarah had told him they had no need for so many. He seemed upset to part with it, but she promised they would keep the rest and it would be a find gift for Talisa in this time of strife. It had been a week. The celebration still went on around them. She was amazed at how long it lasted, but it did seem to be calming down. Slowly, people were beginning to leave, back to their fields and those left behind to tend to their village and crops. But since the attack and the vanishing of Milap, the tiny extended family had kept mostly to themselves.

Next, she retrieved a bundle of fine feathers. Sarah failed to understand why someone would keep them, but she packed them on Ahanu's instruction regardless. Next came a tasty plant paste he had taught her to make. She would smear it on meat or fish. Ahanu did his best to limit the fish in their diet, but so close to the river and the ocean, it was a staple of the savage diet. Slowly, he was beginning to return with more and more. Next, came a bundle of claws and teeth. They were not from big animals, but Ahanu said they could be used in clothing or pottery. Sarah had put them into the basket with a grimace but said nothing. Next came a little pot of jam. Sarah had collected them with Alice and Megedagik's two children the day before. Alice made the jam with her. She was teaching the little girl how to make it as she went.

"Ahanu went out with Megedagik and Samoset this morning," Sarah told Talisa once the basket was empty. "They want to get a few miles past the spit rock in the east."

"He just disappeared," Talisa whispered. "I don't understand."

Sarah fell silent. She had heard Megedagik say to Ahanu the day before, when he came to collect Alice, that he suspected the boy had slipped into the river and brought out to sea. The water had been so rough, the mountains still filtering down the melted snow from the abnormally cold winter. A slip into the river at certain locations, even the strongest of swimmers would not survive such odds. Sarah had asked Ahanu if he agreed with Ahanu. Ahanu gave a pained smile and assured her, he still believed Milap would be found healthy. Sarah was certain it was the first time he had lied to her.

"I made this our way," she said, holding up the jam to her. Talisa took it with a little smile. She sniffed it.

"It looks very good," Talisa complimented. "Have some with me?"

Sarah nodded with a little smile.

"Do you have any of the cakes. Put it on that," she said. Talisa frowned but went to fetch some cakes she had made the night before. Once the cakes were distributed, she dipped the cake into the jam and brought it to her lips. Talisa quite enjoyed it and asked her to teach her the recipe. Sarah promised to return the next day with fresh berries.

She left around mid-afternoon. She walked down to Alice's lodge before returning home. Alice was seated outside. She was seeing to a scraped knee, speaking sternly to the little boy. He was wiping his eyes, nodding slowly, hiccupping and nodding. The little girl was standing beside her, arms crossed, glaring at the little boy.

Sarah sat down by the fire without a word. Alice acknowledged her with a quick glance and continued speaking to the boy. The little girl knelt beside Sarah and Sarah removed her bonnet and pulled on the tie. The little girl smiles and ran her fingers through her hair. The innocence of it was the reason Sarah had no problem letting the girl ogle.

"Mansi," Alice suddenly said. The girl looked over with a frown. "Wipe that look off your face!" she snapped in English. She pointed at the girl. Immediately the look vanished. Her eyebrows lifted and eyes widened, lips parted, a look of surprised innocence on her face. "You don't push your brother. Understand?"

Sarah was amazed to realize the little girl responded in English.

"But I –"

"No buts, young lady. He does that again, you come to me. What you did was mean and dangerous."

"Yes, Alice."

"They're learning English?" Sarah asked.

"It is easier for me. Megedagik cannot know. I am supposed to be speaking their language exclusively," Alice said and finished dabbing the paste onto Ahote's knee. "He makes an exception when I am with you. He does not want the children learning English."

"They speak it well," Sarah said, demonstrating her surprise.

"Well enough. Like us, they understand more than they can speak. You know children. Little sponges," Alice smiled and stroked Ahote's hair. The boy scrambled into her lap. Alice rocked him gently. "I've never met a more wayward, incorrigible, obedient child," Alice said. "I swear to you, Sarah, they are the only reason I've survived."

Sarah gave a smile. The little girl parted her hair, getting up on her knees and biting her lip. With deft little fingers, she began to braid Sarah's hair. Sarah said nothing.

"Milap has… there has been no sign?" Alice asked. Sarah looked down and shook her head.

"Megedagik believes he's dead. Swept away by the river."

"I am sorry, Sarah."

Sarah shrugged.

"We were not so close. I am saddened, to be sure, but it is Talisa's pain that affects me most."

"The loss of a child is not easy," Alice agreed. "There is no love than that of a mother."

"Do you ever think that… if we somehow managed to get the fort… the fort must remain…" Sarah whispered. Alice looked at her.

"How?" she asked softly. "How Sarah? How could we possibly get that far? I would not even know how to find it."

"Then this is our life?" she asked. "I do not believe you've resigned yourself to this."

"No," Alice said. "Not entirely I… There is nothing for me at the fort. What would I do? Return to England? What is left for me there?"

"Our people," Sarah answered. "Civilization. Comfort."

Alice nodded slowly. "What comfort have I in England with no family, no husband, no place to live, and no means to feed myself?"

She sighed deeply.

"If the opportunity presented itself, I would take it," Alice agreed. "But if I went out there, I'd die before I ever got near the fort… assuming Megedagik failed to find me."

"You think he would search?" Sarah asked. Alice's eyes took on a strange glimmer. She looked at the fire, then down the path to her right. It must have been the direction Megedagik had left.

"I know he would," she answered. Mansi moved over to the other side of Sarah's head.

"I just believe that –"

Alice raised a finger. "I do not know what they understand."

Sarah nodded.

"How did they learn?"

"I just refuse to speak their language unless necessary," Alice responded. "They pick it up as we go. Like we did."

Sarah nodded slowly. Mansi finished her hair and Sarah smiled at her. "Thank you," she said to the little girl. Alice smiled at her.

"You actually look quite fetching like that," Alice mused. "You should leave it."

"I must cover my head," Sarah mumbled. "I don't like the attention."

"I understand," Alice said. She looked over and a sigh left her.

"Speak proper now," Alice said to the children. She then said in the native tongue, "speak right."

The children saw Megedagik coming. The man made her nervous. He was fearsome looking. Just a bit younger than her own father had been, and never seemed happy. When she did see him smile, it felt terribly out of place to the young blond girl. He came forward alone, head held high, face pensive.

"Good morning," she greeted the warrior as he came forward. He looked up to the sky.

"Good afternoon," he replied. She looked up at the sun.

"I have the fish roasted," Alice told him. She did not look up from the shirt she had taken to sewing. Megedagik grunted and pulled the tent flap to the side. Then he paused. He looked back to examine Alice a moment. Sarah's friend paid no mind, but something about the look in the warrior's eyes, sent a shiver down Sarah's spine.

* * *

Sarah left Alice in late afternoon. Aiyana had gone to visit with her sisters for the evening and Megedagik needed Alice inside. She carried her basket, now full with gifts from Alice. She had nothing to do all day. She was getting very good at making shirts. She told Sarah to see if Ahanu would like them.

She wondered down the path to the river where he was working. His wounds were still not healed, but he was healthy enough to get back to work. He had one fire burning in the center of the semi-hallowed log. As the fire slowly burned, he laid out the birchbark over the carefully crafted skeleton of what would be a very large little boat. It would carry quite a few.

"Ahanu," she greeted. He looked up and then straightened with a smile when he saw her. She walked toward him and placed the basket down. "Alice made you these. If you do not want them I will give them to the Corn Planters."

Ahanu grabbed his canteen and went through the shirts. He checked on the fire once and then settled on some shirts.

"The rest can go to the Corn Planters," he said. He motioned for her to sit beside him and she obeyed. "How are you feeling?" he gently removed her bonnet.

"Well," she answered. "I am worried about Talisa. Tell me true. Will we find Milap living?"

Ahanu looked at her with big, sad eyes, and then looked down to the canteen in his hands.

"Most likely not," he answered. "I think that Megedagik is right. I fear we will not even have a body to burn."

"Burn?"

"Yes, burn," Ahanu replied. There was a pause. "You bury your dead."

"My parents burned," she answered. She looked out at the winding river. It was narrow where they were. Ahanu liked to work there because it was quiet. Easy to launch the canoe and get it to the next owner. "That man… I hate him."

Ahanu looked at her. He lowered his gaze. His lips opened. He considered speaking. He looked pained. He decided to remain silent. Sarah did not push. She decided to dwell on the images of her dead parents.

"I am going to go lie down," she said and got to her feet. Ahanu followed.

"Soon, you will need to return to the fields," he informed her. Sarah nodded. She had expected as much, but she was disappointed none the less. She wanted to run a home. She wanted to maintain the garden, the cows and chickens, raise children, cook meals for her husband. She shouldn't be plowing fields.

"Wawetseka?" Ahanu asked her. He reached out and touched her wrist gently. "Are you very unhappy with me?"

"I miss my home," she admitted. "But I am thankful I've had you."

His lips curved upward but his eyes glimmered sadly. He released her.

"Go on now," he said. His voice was low. She lingered a moment. She had not meant to hurt him. He hunched back over to work on his canoe. She decided to leave without another word. She would make sure he had a good meal to come home to.

* * *

The screech that escaped the little boy when it was announced they were leaving was the audible representation of the searing pain Alice felt rip through her already tattered heart. The celebration was ending. It was time for life to return to normal. Crops needed to be seen to, villages returned to. They lived to the North. A little over a half day of travel.

Mansi sniffled and rubbed her eyes. Ahote wailed. His things were bundled up and ready to be carried off. His uncle and his wives were ready for travel. He clutched at his father, but when Megedagik told him, sternly, but gently, that he needed to go home, the little boy released his father. He went scurrying over to Alice. His arms wrapped around her legs, his fingers clutched at her skirts. She closed her eyes, caught between an indescribable feeling of numbness and agony. When her eyes opened, she stroked his thick hair back from his face. His tanned little face turned up to her, eyes wide and wet. She smiled softly and wiped the tears away with the pads of her thumbs.

"You must obey your father," she said. Her voice was quiet. It trembled, but only just.

"But I don't wanna go," he cried, pressing his face back into her.

"Ahote," she said sternly. "Ahote, look at me."

He obeyed and she knelt before him so they would be on the same level.

"We will see each other again," she vowed. She continued to brush his hair back, combing through it with her fingers. She did not know if it was true, but needed it to be. "Very soon."

"No!" he cried angrily. She saw Megedagik step forward to silence his misbehaving son. Before he could come across the distance between them, she grabbed the little boy by the arms and squeezed firmly. Not enough to really hurt, but enough to silence him.

"Silence now or we do not say goodbye," she said curtly. He got himself under control. "Alright now?" he nodded. She looked up at Megedagik and he retreated. Alice embraced the child tightly. "Be good now," he ordered. She patted his cheeks. She bit back tears and smiled at him. "I want to know you've behaved when you come back."

He nodded and sniffled.

"Be nice to your sister," she added. "And make sure you eat." The little boy had so much energy, he'd play all day and not eat a scrap if you allowed it.

"I will," he promised.

"Alright then," she said but he hugged her again. He wrapped his arms around her neck and held her tightly. He started to cry again. The sound of it tore her apart.

"We go now," Donehogawa said. She nodded and gently removed him from her. She stood and took hold of his hand. She walked with him to his sister. Mansi was holding her father's hand, crying softly. Alice said goodbye to the little girl. She hugged Ahote one more time. The little boy held on for dear life. She almost wished he would have been indifferent to their separation. It would have hurt less. She peeled him away from her. Her mouth was dry.

"Go on now, Ahote," she whispered. He clawed at her hands. He whined.

"Mama," he said innocently. Her heart all but seized. She saw little William's big brown eyes gazing up at him. She saw his thick head of blond hair, stained red with his blood, crowned around his shattered little skull. She reached out to hug him again. She held him tightly, swaying him gently. She saw Megedagik coming closer. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the hug as long as she could. She was hugging Ahote, but she was also hugging William. His warm, little body, thin arms wrapped lovingly around her, sad little sniffles of a hurting little boy.

Megedagik wrenched the child from her arms.

"She is not your mother," he snapped. "And you will act like a man."

Ahote looked up at his father with wide, fearful eyes, full to the brim with unfallen tears. He rang his hands in front of him.

"He is a little boy – !" Alice defended the little boy. Megedagik raised a hand abruptly. Alice flinched and moved backward, momentarily positive he was going to strike her. He only held his hand up, his warning clear. Chilaili came to stand beside her, ready to shield her from any violence should it begin.

"Silence, woman," Megedagik said, face twisted in anger. "Remember your place."

She took another step back. She swallowed thickly. He looked back at his son.

"No more wallowing. Be strong. Sure. You will see the Maskaanna again," he then reassured the child. Ahote looked at her. His little face crumpled, eyes wet. When a child was in such pain, it was a mother's duty to soothe that pain. That she could not left her hallow. She tried to smile at him. The little boy took a step forward. He wanted to hug her again. Megedagik would not allow it.

"Go now, son," Megedagik said. He touched his head. He hugged and kissed his daughter. Ahote looked at Alice longingly. Even as the goodbyes came to a close, and he was led away by one of his uncle's wives, he looked back at her. She watched from beside Megedagik. Once out of side, she closed her eyes. A fat tear spilled down her cheek.

"You've now robbed a second child from me," she said, eyes fluttering open. Her chest ached. Her mouth was dry. She felt nauseous. Megedagik turned his head to look at her. She moved to go back to the lodge. "Don't touch me tonight."

Chilaili turned her head abruptly. Megedagik looked back at her and gave her a hard look. Alice went back into the lodge. She collected her things. She reorganized them. She made up her bed with her extra furs. She did her best to remain busy.

Megedagik returned sometime later. Chilaili was with him. Aiyana was still gone. She had no desire to say goodbye to the children. Alice did not so much as glance at them in greeting. She took to pulling the tender fish apart and repairing it the way he liked. Without having to ask, she put his dinner before him, handed him a packed pipe, and a cup of tea. Chilaili gathered he own food. Alice was not hungry, but she did tilt the new jug of wine over and refill her glass.

"The children come back often," Chilaili assured her. She ate the fish Alice had prepared, looking at her with concern filled eyes. "And we visit Megedagik's family there. You will not be parted long."

Alice nodded. She raised her cup to her lips and looked at Megedagik. He was staring at her and he felt no need to lower his eyes. He stared back at her, gaze hard. She wondered if he might take her tonight despite her earlier assertion, or perhaps  _in spite_ of it. But he only stared at her.

"Maskaanna," he said through the smoky, hot air of the lodge. He placed the little clay jar that held the oil in front of him. She looked at it and considered her options. She wanted to say no. She did not want to be near him. She did not want to touch him. He saw her hesitation and reached out to the side for his lash. She did not have the energy for the struggle or the fight. She sighed and moved toward him. She worked the oil into the skin of his scalp. He sucked on his pipe. She massaged it into his neck. His muscles were taught.

She worked on his shoulders and upper arms. Once finished, she wiped her hands clean. She started when his hand closed around the back of her neck. His hand was large and warm, grip hard.

"Not tonight." She had wished her voice was stronger, more sure, but her voice was soft and timid.

"Sinopa has left," Chilaili offered with a smile and twinkling eyes. Megedagik's face warped into a type of angry grimace. His upper lip moved upward, his nostrils flared, and his brow furrowed. His hand tightened and then he released her dismissively. Alice moved back to her little corner.

"Well, come here then," he said. Chilaili moved closer to him. His hand touched the back of her neck. He pulled her in for a kiss. Chilaili seemed quite receptive. Alice collected her cup and jug and readied to escape to the fire outside.

"No," Megedagik said abruptly. She looked over. Chilaili seemed confused. "You stay."

Alice looked at him. She picked up the cup and drank deeply. Megedagik lowered Chilaili to the ground. Alice settled back in the corner of the lodge, and tried to drown out the sounds of sex with a half jug of wine.


	19. XIX

XIX

Megedagik turned his head to look at the Maskaanna. Chilaili was pressed tightly against him, long, slender leg draped over him, breasts pressed to his chest, fingers playing with his necklaces. Soft little breaths came from her lips, tapping against his neck. The Maskaanna lay in the corner, sleeping deeply, lips parted, half full cup of wine still in her hand. Megedagik gently trailed his fingers along Chilaili's back, looking at the sleeping white woman thoughtfully.

"You will not tell Aiyana?" Megedagik asked softly. He gently stroked her soft skin.

"I am your wife," Chilaili muttered. She brought her toe upward, trailing it along his calf. "It's as much my right as hers."

"I mean about the Maskaanna," Megedagik clarified.

"You like her," Chilaili mused. "Aiyana can see it."

"You will not tell her," he pressed.

"I will say nothing," Chilaili promised.

"Fire is too hot," he grumbled. A bead of sweat dripped down from his temple.

"If you are kinder to her, she will like you better," Chilaili said. Megedagik grunted and sat up. Her leg remained over his, but her arm fell away from his body. She moaned rolled over onto her back. He nudged a log off the flames. The wood fell and sparks lifted into the air.

"Is it her skin?" Chilaili asked.

"Silence, wife."

He remained seated, nudging at the fire with a stick. Chilaili sat up. She wrapped her arms around his middle and kissed his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his middle. She dragged her thumb down the center of his chest to belly button.

"Do you think Aiyana would leave?" Chilaili asked. "Is that what scares you?"

"It is my right to do what I wish with my own property. It is her right to leave if it displeases her," he answered.

"But you love Aiyana," Chilaili said. She kissed his shoulder blades. Her hands smoothed out over his chest. He touched her hands.

"I love both my wives," he assured her softly. She smiled at him and rested her chin on his shoulder.

"Not the same," Chilaili said knowingly.

"She is right," he murmured. His voice was low, just above the crackle of the flames. "I am as responsible for the death of her child as Matchitehlew."

"That is not true."

"It is," he said. He closed his hands over hers. "She earned that kill. She earned the life of her son. I keep playing that day over and over again in my head. If I had just stayed quiet. She'd have killed him, the boy would have lived, and I'd have sent them on their way but… instead, I saved him. A man that does not deserve the air he breaths and now the child is dead."

"Many children are now dead," Chilaili reminded him gently. "What difference does one more make?"

"He meant something to her," Megedagik answered. He looked down at the white woman in the corner.

"Why did you bring her back?" Chilaili asked.

"She wouldn't have survived the walk back to her village if I just left her," he answered. "I felt I owed it to her. She'd fought for her life. I had to preserve it."

"She wasn't fighting for her life. She was fighting for his," Chilaili said. Megedagik stared at her hands, wrapped limply around the half-filled cup. Those square, ugly finger nails. He could feel Chilaili's eyes on him. She looked him over thoughtfully. "You cannot dwell on it. You had no way of knowing."

"It keeps me up at night," he admitted.

"Relieve yourself of that guilt," Chilaili said. "There is nothing you can about it now."

He turned with a little smile. "Is it that easy?"

"No," Chilaili said. "But I have faith in you." She reached up and touched his cheeks. "You are a good man, Sunukkuhkau."

He leaned down and kissed her. Their bodies twisted until they were back down on the furs.

"Chilaili," he murmured.

"Hmm?" she asked. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He grabbed her thigh, squeezing the soft skin firmly, and pulled her leg up to hook around his waist. "Do not tell, Aiyana."

"I won't," she promised. He leaned down and placed a kiss to her lips.

* * *

Alice kneeled over the grate and scrubbed the shirt. She had gone around the village, collecting shirts from the different lodges. Many had dirty or bloody shirts left over from the festival. They would come by at the end of the day and go through the basket and reclaim their cleaned clothing. It was not something she as tasked with, but something she took upon herself to keep busy.

Sarah was beside her. Ahanu was working on his newest canoe. He'd made a lot for those traveling home, but Powhatan wanted more sea faring fishing boats. Sarah was there on break from the field. Now married, her work schedule now resembled that of another woman of the tribe. Frances was a bit angry, or so Sarah said, but the two remained close.

"Aiyana is in a terrible mood," Sarah told Alice as she ate. Ahanu had fish and berries waiting for her when she arrived. "She almost didn't let me leave."

"What happened?" Alice asked.

"Some of the girls started pulling out the wrong squash fields. I don't know how. They clearly weren't ripe. Lost about four rows. I heard Aiyana from three fields over."

"What do they have you doing?"

"Weeding mostly. I think later I will go to planting the eastern field. Beans, I think. It isn't so bad."

"It is still so odd," Alice mused. She looked up. Her hair fell from its bun. Strands stuck to the back of her neck. The day was hot. Even the birds refused to come out into the sun. "Women working fields."

She turned her head to look at Sarah. It was still early, and her cheeks were pink.

"You can't stay out in the sun much longer," Alice cautioned her. "You'll burn."

"It hard to stay out of the sun," Sarah agreed. "It's direct sun, wherever I go."

"If you start to burn, leave. This is not in jest, Sarah. It's too hot."

"I'll be careful," she promised. She wiped her hands on her apron and got to her feet. Ahanu rose from his work with a smile. He came toward Sarah and place a kiss to her lips. Alice looked away and continued to scrub. It was the shirt of a young man. He had been in the tournament from the looks of it. It was caked with dirt.

"Boys are boys," she murmured to herself.

"What?" Ahanu asked. He was working on the canoe. She felt safer being alone at the river by his work place. He was not one for conversation. He seemed comfortable in silence and she wanted to better know Sarah's pretend husband.

"Boys," she said in his tongue. She raised the shirt. He smiled and nodded. He was warping a piece of wood for a long canoe. She continued to scrub at the shirt.

It was a little past midday that Megedagik came from the eastern bank of the river. He was alone, a string of birds at his hip. She saw him approaching, but looked right back down to her work. He kneeled down beside her, facing Ahanu.

"Maskaanna," he greeted.

"Good afternoon."

She looked back down at her shirt but he reached up. He placed a finger to her chin. He gently directed her face back to him.

"What are you doing?" he asked. He looked at the clothing. She sat back on her feet. Her heart beat a bit more quickly.

"Cleaning the shirts," she answered, though he could see that for himself. He nodded thoughtfully. He looked back at her. He reached to his side and pulled out a little pouch. He emptied it out onto his hand. Out came dirty, but beautiful rocks. They were a stunning green. Two were a deep purple. Another was a large white rock, almost perfectly clear. She'd never seen any stones like that. She hesitantly reached out and picked one up.

"Beautiful," she said and put it back into her hand. He smiled and put them back into the pouch.

"They hold the souls of our ancestors. You pray to the Great Spirit, and a part of their soul comes to live in the stones. Then they are always with you."

"But, does that not rob them of Heaven?"

"Heaven?"

"What comes after."

He shook his head, clearly confused.

"The soul is not so confined," he answered. He took the pouch and gently wrapped it around her neck.

His hand closed around the back of her neck and her mouth went dry, her heart pounded. Megedagik looked up sharply at Ahanu. The young warrior stood and walked away without a word. Once alone, Megedagik brought his face to hers.

His lips were tender. The kiss was soft. He pulled his face away and looked at her. His fingers gently kneaded her neck. She thought he might kiss her again. Harder, more violent, one to display dominance, but he released her neck and rose. He looked up at the sun.

"Return home before dark."

"I will be home long before that."

He gave a nod and went on his way. Ahanu returned shortly after that. He went back to his work without a word. Alice cleaned a few more shirts, deep in thought, but then paused once more. She raised her hand to the pouch around her neck. Her fingers closed around it. She gripped it firmly. The leather secure in her palm. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

She prayed to the sound of the chirping birds and sawing wood.

* * *

Sarah wiped her forehead, leaving behind a dirty smudge as she squinted up into the blistering sun. She'd already run out of water and she Aiyana was a fearsome mood. She knew better than to sneak away to the river. Frances shared hers. She was the only reason Sarah was still in the fields. Frances moved slowly, and as the sun rose into the sky, unfettered by a single dot of white across the blue sky above, she grew slower still. Sarah just did not have it in her to leave Frances in the fields at high heat.

She slumped to the side, leaning onto a hip in the middle of the field. She could see Aiyana out in the distance. She marveled at the savage women working around her. None of them seemed to be struggling as they were. Some looked tired, many had sweat on their brow, but Sarah felt as if she might drop. She'd experienced New World heat since her arrival from England, but she had never had need of such exertion. When the days would grow this hot, they'd shutter up the houses and retreat until the spell broke.

"Sarah, I am dying," Frances lamented dramatically. Sarah turned back to look at her and considered she might not be in jest. Her face was red, and not a momentary flush from the heat. Sarah wondered if her burning skin might be the same color. Her eyes felt dry and sore. When Frances' eyes widened, she realized it was. "Sarah," she breathed.

"Is it bad?" she asked, reaching up to touch her face.

"Pull the bonnet down," Frances suggested. Sarah did but it did little to block out the sun. "Where is your husband?"

"He's working. And he's not my husband. Not really," Sarah said and went back to her work.

"You live with him, you sleep with him, and he calls you wife," Frances answered. She said nothing more. She reached out to take from the canteen. "I just don't think I can do any more."

"I know…" Sarah agreed, but she pushed on. "Come, the faster we work, the faster we get out of the sun."

Frances' speed began to anger Sarah. She threatened to leave more than once if she did not put in more of an effort. Frances' anger grew as well. She shouted for her to go then. Go back to her savage husband. Sarah would grumble and go back to work.

Sarah hunched down and let out a deep breath. She dug her hands deep into the rich soil, relishing in its coolness. A woman a plot over looked over, annoyed by the two squabbling white women, but her scowl dropped from her face. Her lips parted. With a word to a friend, she ran off to other end of the field. Sarah was still hunched over, hands in the dirt, eyes pressed closed, when she heard Aiyana's voice. She started awake and swayed.

"Both of you," Aiyana called, jabbing her finger to the tree-line. "Go home. Both of you, now. Come back tomorrow."

Frances got to her feet. Sarah lacked the good sense of Frances and asked why.

"Why? You're about to set fire. Go. Now," she said, snapping at her and pointing toward the tree line again. Sarah pushed herself up and swayed. She would have fallen if Aiyana had not been there to catch her. "Great Spirit," Aiyana breathed. Her dark eyes darted across her face. "Is this normal?"

"No," Sarah answered. "Yes, but no," she added, confusing Aiyana further. Sarah forced a smile. "I am well."

"Will you make it back?"

Sarah nodded. Aiyana handed Sarah her own canteen.

"Give it back tomorrow," she said rather curtly. She watched with a frown on her face as Sarah walked back to the tree line.

"Yellow Girl!" Aiyana called after her. Sarah turned and squinted. She raised her hand to block out the sun. "Home is that way."

Sarah turned in the direction Aiyana pointed. Oh yes, she had been going the wrong way.

She raised the canteen up to her mouth. It was empty far too soon. She hoped Ahanu would be home. She did not want to go all the way to the river herself.

Her mouth was bone dry. Her throat ached. Her heart rate accelerated as she neared home, but she was no longer sweating. She reached up to her forehead. Her skin was hot, but dry. Her breathing grew heavier. It hurt her throat. She stopped just before the clearing and caught herself from falling with a hand to a tree.

"Oh," she breathed. A dirty hand clutched at her stomach and she bent at the waist to wretch. She wiped her mouth with a little moan and pushed forward. She was beyond thankful to find Ahanu had filled the water already, but she was not sure where he was. She sat down with the bowl in her lap.

She splashed her face, took a few large handfuls, but it brought on a violent wave of nausea. She leaned forward and heaved again. Her stomach emptied. She felt a little better. At least the nausea passed. Her head was pounding. She threw the bonnet to the side. She ducked her entire head into the bowl. She head her breath, hoping it would alleviate the throbbing. She whipped her head back with a deep breath. The motion was ill-advised, and she leaned forward and vomited once again.

Ahanu came jogging toward her. He crouched beside her and put a hand on her back.

"Wawetseka?" he asked. She looked at him and his lips parted. "Wh-what happened to you? Did someone do this to you?"

She could hear the anger in his voice. The fear. Her own anxiety grew. What had happened to her face? It had to be bad for such a reaction as this.

"Wawetseka," he breathed. He licked his lips nervously. He swallowed and stood. His hand were shaking as he stood.

"Ahanu?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Stay here. Stay here, now," he said and was suddenly off. He darted into the woods and Sarah sighed. She leaned against the jug and splashed water into her face. She touched her nose, cheeks, chin and forehead. She felt nothing horrible. Her skin was sensitive. It did not feel good, but surely such a reaction was not warranted.

He returned a short time later. Alice was running after him and she let out a groan. She heard the words "I told you," leave her dear friends lips before she even opened her mouth to speak. Alice fell to her knees before her and gently touched her hands to her cheeks. She had a gentle frown on her face. She carefully avoided the vomit on the ground.

"I told you," Alice finally said. She retrieved a cloth and submerged it into the water. "She needs to cool down. She'll be fine," Alice told Ahanu. She brought up the rag and gently dabbed her face with the cloth. It felt good. Sarah's mouth was beginning to grow damp again. Her heart rate was slowing. Her stomach still churned.

"Her skin," Ahanu said. He reached out and gingerly touched her cheek. Alice slapped his hand away.

"Will return to normal," Alice assured him.

"It is so red," he said in awe. "The color of a raspberry."

"Aiyana thought you were going to burst into flames," Alice told her in English, ignoring Ahanu's confused concern. "She came just before Ahanu, asking me if you would expire."

"She sent Frances and I home before our plot was done. She said not to return until morning," Sarah said.

"You should ask if you can arrive at first light. You cannot afford to spend all day in this heat without proper covering."

"I can assure you, Alice, she will not change schedule for me, no matter what she might think."

"I will see to it."

"You've told me Aiyana is not fond of you," Sarah said. Alice gently wetting down the top of her head, squeezing some cool water from the rag directly on top of her hair. It felt heavenly and Sarah closed her eyes.

"She is not, but her husband is," Alice answered. "And she is fond of him."

"I would be lying if I said I would not appreciate you putting in a word," Sarah replied. "For Frances, as well?"

"Of course," Alice answered. He touched her face with her palms. Her skin was beginning to cool.

"That was horrible."

"Lawrence returned from the fields one day with the same affliction," Alice sighed. "He was all bundled up, working out in that hot sun. They were building the barn by the Eastern road? I do not think he thought such heat possible. Another reason to miss England…"

"I like the warmth," Sarah mused. "When I am able to rest. I… we…" she looked at Ahanu, "went swimming just down there two days before. It is so relaxing, Alice, so refreshing, and no eyes to see."

Ahanu disappeared into the hut. He came back with a raspberry in his hand. He held it up and compared it to Sarah's cheeks. She frowned at him.

"It will go away," she promised.

"You will peel," Alice mused. "It'll peel right off. Like steaming a tomato."

"That is enough, Alice," Sarah scolded gently.

"Next time, I suggest you listen to me," she answered imperiously. Sarah smiled at her. It was just Alice's way. She was always taking care of someone. Lawrence, William, Ahote… her. "Do you need me to cook you something?"

"No, no, we have food," Sarah answered. "And I just wish to rest right now. I am sorry he made you come all this way."

"It is no bother. I was to come by regardless… the description Aiyana gave me. Will you set on fire…" she shook her head and stood. Ahanu remained seated beside her. He raised the raspberry and smiled. He brought it to her lips and she took a bite.

"It is the sun," she told him. She pointed up. "Too much, burns the skin."

"Our skin burns," he told her. "But not like that."

"Is it very ugly?" she asked. He considered a moment and then shook his head. She smiled softly. "Lie down with me?"

He said nothing, but helped her get to her feet. He lingered. He washed away the vomit from the front of the lodge and collected fresh water. When he returned, he joined her on the furs. She had pulled at the strings of her dress. She lifted the skirt up to her mid-thigh. He lay down beside her and looked down at her with a small smile.

"Still beautiful," he assured her when she asked why he was staring at her. She blushed, but she was sure he could not tell. "If it is warm tonight, and the sky clear, if I pull the furs outside, will you sleep beneath the stars with me?"

Sarah looked out at the clearing. Even with the tent flap tied open at night, she disliked the notion of not sleeping beneath a roof. She turned her head to tell him as much, but he looked very hopeful. He had asked her for some time and she continued to refuse. She had informed him he could bring his own furs out, but he wanted to be close to her. She reached up to touch his chin, a little smile on her lips.

"I will," she conceded. It was well worth the smile that came to his face.

* * *

"No flames," Alice announced as she returned home. Megedagik looked up at her from his cup of tea. He had a smile small on his lips. Aiyana was gently shaving his scalp. Alice was glad her sisters had finally left. Megedagik was always more distant when Aiyana was close.

"Is she ill?" Aiyana asked.

"She was. It will pass," Alice answered. She sat back down in front of the bird she had been plucking. "The skin will heal, but it will…oh," she sighed. "What's the word?" she went with English, "peel."

"Peel?" It was Megedagik's rumbled.

"Like an onion," she clarified. She made the motion and he said the word.

"Is the skin beneath so pale?" Chilaili asked. Alice frowned.

"No, not that much skin, it just, just the top layer. A tiny bit just."

Chilaili clearly did not understand.

"Our lands across the sea are cloudy," she said. Even Aiyana seemed interested at the mention of England. "Sometimes sun…. weather this hot is not common."

"Why did you leave?" Chilaili asked. Alice handed her some feathers.

"Our King, he wanted more land than Spain. Another tribe. I… I had no choice," she said.

"Your King forced you to go?" Megedagik asked. Alice looked at him briefly.

"No," she answered. "My father could not feed me anymore. It was time I married. He found Lawrence."

She looked at the ring on her finger. She twirled it carefully.

"He was a good man."

"You lived with your father?" Aiyana asked. Her confusion was apparent. Alice had gathered children lived with their uncles for these people. She assumed when a man had more than one wife, the number of children they had might become unmanageable. Most were still within the same village. They saw their father's and mother's every day. She just had the unfortunate luck of bonding with a little boy whose uncle lived a half day of travel away.

"Children live with parents," she answered. "In one lodge, we have husband," she held up a finger, "his  _one_ wife," she looked at Megedagik, "and all their children."

"What happens to women who do not get married?"

"All women get married," she returned her attention to the bird.

"If no man takes them?" Megedagik asked. Alice shrugged and said nothing.

"Well, your remaining people can go home now, and need not worry about the sun."

"They won't leave," Alice said. She did not mumble, but her voice was low. "They'll just send more."

"Then they will die as well," Megedagik answered. She looked up and they locked eyes.

"And then more will come," she answered.

"How many are there?" Aiyana asked. Alice sighed. She plopped the bird down and got to her feet. She wiped her skirts.

"More than you could possibly imagine," Alice sighed in English. When she addressed Megedagik, it was in their language. "Do you want tobacco?"

"Mint leaves."

She went inside and fetched her cooking materials and the mint leaves. She handed him the jar they were stored in. She never gave him the amount he wanted. It was either too much or too little. After being scolded for what felt like the hundredth time, she began bringing him the entire jar. He appeared to be amused by the gesture. When she had first presented it to him, a tiny smile had crept across his face.

"So her skin will not fall off?" Chilaili asked. Alice actually laughed. She shook her head and sliced into the bird.

"No, it will not fall off and she will burst into flames," Alice answered.

"Is she sickly?" Chilaili asked, scooting closer. "Her eyes and hair. Is that normal amongst your people?"

"Less common, but not uncommon," she answered. "I have been told it is common among the Nordics. … Another tribe."

"A whole people that look like that?"

"I don't know for sure. It is what I have been told," she replied.

"What was your home like?" Chilaili continued. "Before you came to our lands?"

Alice looked at her and then went back to cooking. She considered for a moment. She decided to entertain her curiosity. "I come from a place called Yorkshire. I lived a few days walk from a city called Manchester. I met my husband as he passed through after my father brought me with him to market. He was travelling here and needed a wife. My father needed one less mouth to feed." She kept her eyes set squarely on the chicken. "Gave my father half a pound and we got married that night. I was on a boat the next day."

"A pound?"

"Oh, like…" she looked around. "I give you this, you give me that."

"He sold you," Megedagik said.

"Lawrence was a good man," she said sharply. "A kind and honest man. And you  _slaughtered_ him."

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wet. Sarah's questions about the fort had brought up emotions and memories she had worked hard to suppress. Suddenly, it was all rushing back to the surface.

"That ring is a sign of marriage?" Megedagik asked, unmoved by her obvious distress. She nodded and twirled the band.

"He made it for me –" she choked back a sob. "The night we wed. He made, made it for me…" she shook her head and got to her feet, hand to her mouth.

"Maskaanna?" Chilaili called after her. Concern was evident in her voice. Alice only shook her head. She waved a hand. She needed to be alone. She walked outside the village walls, settled down at a secluded patch of grass overlooking the river, and had herself a good long cry.

She returned later in the evening to find Chilaili had taken over her chores. Dinner was finished, new wine had been carried out from the little old wine maker at the end of the village, and the water was refilled. Alice sat down beside her in the lodge with a soft thank you. She sipped at her tea and ate in silence. Her eyes were red. She knew it was obvious she had been crying, and so she kept her face angled downward.

Aiyana was massaging the oil into her husband's scalp. His eyes were closed as he enjoyed the sensation of her small, beautiful fingers working against his skin. Alice examined her own hands. She felt tears nip at her eyelids as she looked at the nails. She blinked rapidly and reached for her jug of wine. She knocked a few pots over in the process, breaking Megedagik's meditation. He watched her pour the wine. Her hands trembled and her heart pounded. It was just not a good night. It would be better tomorrow. She raised the wine to her lips and drank it down. She poured herself another cup. When she raised it to her lips to drink, she brought her eyes back up to Megedagik. He stared at her from across the lodge.

One of Aiyana's small, delicate hands touched his jaw and turned his face toward hers. She kissed him gently, bringing his attention back toward her. Alice did not divert her eyes. They truly were savages. To sit in a hut with two other people, and think nothing of fornicating. And it  _was_ fornication. One man could not be properly married to two women at one time. How Chilaili could sit there and not bat an eye, Alice could not understand. Aiyana deepened the kiss, hands on either side of her husband's face. Alice felt nauseated by the display. How he could kiss Aiyana like that, after lying with  _her_ so many times…

His eyes opened and landed on her. It startled her, but she did not look away. The kiss did not stop, but his eyes bore into her. She felt the desire coming from his gaze. It was dark, violent, predatory, hot. She suddenly felt as though everything he was about to do to Aiyana, he was doing to  _her._ She looked away and closed her eyes. She felt ill. She did not want to watch him with her.

"Maskaanna," he said, voice gravelly. She looked over at him, frightened of what he might demand. Aiyana was kissing his neck. His eyes still burned. "You can go for a walk if you like."

She felt a rush of gratitude.

"You don't have to send her away," Aiyana said between kisses. She turned his face back to her and said between kisses to his mouth, "let her watch if she wants."

The hands on his chest and shoulders were possessive. She leaned forward and but one of his earlobes.

"You may leave," he said again, ignoring his jealous wife. She took her jug and cup and made for the exit. When she returned later that night, Chilaili was sleeping peacefully, a large piece of salted fish still in her hand. Megedagik and Aiyana were off to the side. She was draped over his body, bare breasts pressed to his chest, legs tangled. The discarded, light material of her dress was draped over their lower halves. The lodge was sweltering hot. A fire still burned. She plopped down in her spot. She put the jug back in place, but knocked it over. She picked it back up and settled it.

"I was about to come looking for you."

She turned to look at Megedagik. He was looking over at her with tired, dark eyes.

"The stars are very beautiful tonight," she answered.

"Where did you look?"

"At the center of the village. I did not go passed the village walls."

He nodded and looked up at the ceiling. She watched his hands gingerly glide across Aiyana's shoulder blades. It was a tender, affectionate touch.

She laid down on her bear fur. She ran her hand over it. It was so soft. Not all that bad to sleep on. "This is yours," she said. Even after the revelation that Megedagik was her rescuer, it had not occurred to her that meant the bear pelt was his as well. He turned his head, but his eyes landed on her. There was a long pause and he simply stared at her.

"It was," he eventually rumbled. "Now it is yours."

"Thank you," she mumbled. He said nothing. His hand continued to lazily trail over Aiyana's back. Aiyana's superiority was at first angering, then a minor annoyance, but very recently, it had begun to anger her once again. She settled down on the furs. "Good night."

"Good night, Alice."

Her eyes darted upward, but he was not looking at her. Those dark, terrible eyes were not pinned on hers. He simply gazed up at the ceiling. She stared at him a few more minutes, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.


	20. XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do appreciate those who take the time out to comment on this piece. I hope you like this newest installment!

XX

Megedagik arrived at the river just as the sun began to rise above the horizon. He was one of the first to arrive. Askuweteau was present, readying the canoes. He had a new one prepared. A fine piece. He would be complimented greatly for it.

He looked up and gave Megedagik a nod in greeting. He continued readying the canoes. They'd be going to the bay today, but Megedagik would not be fishing.

The blond child arrived not long after other men began to arrive. She presented a cup and a pouch to her young husband. He looked at her tenderly, draping the strap over a bare shoulder.

"We'll be dropped off on the northern bank," Kesegowase said to his right. He slid his axe into the holster on his chest. From it hung the axe, two angry looking blades, and a pouch of water.

"I'll be to the south," Megedagik answered. "If we are lucky, there will be none left to kill."

"The fields?"

"Pick what you can carry. If they linger, we must be sure they're hungry."

Kesegowase nodded slowly.

"If we make contact?"

"Numbers. Don't go out into the open. Their exploding spears have the edge with distance and open. Don't give it to them."

"Warriors," Askuweteau greeted respectfully. "Your new boats are just here."

They were smaller than the fishing boats. They could hold up to five each, but usually transported two. Easy to maneuver, fast, sturdy. Used for stealth and speed.

"Beautiful boats, Etchemin," Waban said.

"Thank you," he said proudly.

"Askuweteau," Megedagik said after the platitudes were done with. He would show him a true compliment. "You will ride with me."

His face momentarily betrayed his surprise. His lips parted and his eyes widened slightly.

"I - yes. Yes. Thank you."

Megedagik gave a nod. The pale girl was important to the Maskaanna. She'd be well served by the elevation of her husband, and Askuweteau had proven his capability time and time again. His father, the disgrace he was, had done him a great disservice. He was better off without living parents.

Askuweteau grabbed his weapons. He knew he was to be part of a scouting party, to be hand picked by Megedagik in such a manner. His hands all but quivered with his excitement.

"Waban," Megedagik called. "Enkoodabaoo."

The men gathered with their small crews. Ahanu arrived, slinging his bow over his shoulder. The boy was a fine shot. If there was a skirmish, he would serve them well.

"Stay in the brush. No one goes into the open. Stay to the permitted. We want to see if they've returned to their villages, how many are at the walled city. If you come upon any invaders, check their numbers, be sure, and if you have the advantage, kill them all."

"Women and children?" Waban asked. Megedagik looked at them and considered.

"Kill them all," he said. The men nodded in understanding. Askuweteau did not seem troubled by the instruction.

They got into their canoes and set out with the fishing party. Askuweteau sat in the back of the canoe, rowing mostly himself. It was in rough water that Megedagik placed the ore into the water and helped fight the flow of the current.

They split from the fishing party and went down a narrow, but wide tributary toward what the English would call the James. The Powhatan had a different name for the mighty river they were to connect to. Werowocomoco rested on the other side of what the English had named the York. A less mighty, but life giving river. It is also what Alice, mistakenly believed, was the James.

The water was narrow. Easy enough to swim across, and though it went into the peninsula, the scouting party would need to pick up their canoes, and travel two or so miles on foot before finding a tributary that would lead them to the James.

The plan, Powhatan had left Megedagik to finalize, but his instructions were clear enough. Find out if the white invaders had returned to their burned villages. If they were small enough in numbers, kill them all. If not, they were to return and call an immediate war council with the other chieftains. Megedagik did not think they would be so foolish as to return to their villages after the losses they suffered, but he was loyal to his King, and he outlined a cautious, but ruthless plan.

They were to circle around the villages. Four raiding parties in total, each consisting of five men. These invaders had their metal armor, their exploding spears. They had speed, skill, and surprise.

Askuweteau pointed and called out at the tributary. It was well hidden. Sometimes even Megedagik would miss it. Megedagik suddenly felt guilty. It was his father's shame that had kept Askuweteau from full warrior's honors. Twenty-eight summers, he was as fine a warrior as you could find. It was only Megedagik's unyielding desire to please his pretty white slave that he had decided to give Askuweteau the recognition he so dearly deserved.

When they got to the end of the little stream, where the boats then scraped across the rocky bottom, they pulled to the side and picked up the boats. They stuck to the banks, moving swiftly. They arrived at the little tributary leading to the James and all disembarked together. Slowly they began to go their separate ways. Each knew the locations they were to reconnoiter.

They were all to meet back at the end of the tributary no later than sunset. Megedagik and Kesegowase's crews had instructions to move on to the walled city where those large exploding spears would fire outside little holes in the pointed wood.

Megedagik, Askuweteau, Babornazine, Waban, and Enkoodabaoo, carefully walked through the location that had once housed two of their white captives. The fields were mostly bare. They walked through and stripped what they could, but it was clear the fields had been abandoned. Dead, decayed bodies still littered the country side. Some left where they fell. Others had been abandoned after an attempt to clean them up. The smell was horrid. Not yet skeletons, but no longer bodies, they hardly looked human.

"They've not been here since the massacre," Waban said. "A squad maybe, so salvage what they could from the fields we left unburned. No more."

Megedagik was inclined to agree. He looked around. They remained at the edge of the tree line. He looked out at the large home that loomed in the distance. He wondered if the Maskaanna lived in a home so large. If that was why she was so angry with her life now. He wished he knew where she came from. Which house had been hers. He wanted to look through it. Find something to bring back for her. Something that might hold significance to her. Alas, he had heard the fighting, he never saw where she originated from.

"Thoughts, Askuweteau?"

"If they've returned, it's possible they came for more than food. Most of the fields were burned upon our retreat. A lodge like that," he pointed toward the looming house in the distance. "Would we so easily abandon it?"

"How many did we slaughter?" Wabun asked. "There is no way they think to return here. To suffer such a defeat, one naturally surrenders to the superior force."

"They are unlike us," Megedagik said. The Maskaanna's words rang in his brain. Such strange, foreign people. Even the people to the north and west, with their strange languages and odd practices, were not so foreign. These white invaders, their ways were as strange as their skin. "We must not assume anything."

He gave a nod to Askuweteau. The boy tried to hide his pride. He did it well, but Megedagik could see the glimmer in his eyes and the twitching of his lips.

They moved onward. Still skirting around the tree line, they examined everything as carefully as they could. Slowly, they moved house to house along the countryside. Each house held a body or two.

These homes they entered. Most were already stripped bare by warriors in the raid. There was little to investigate. It did not look like anything had been touched.

It was late afternoon when they arrived outside the walled city the English called a fort. The Powhatan warriors dotted the tree line, but they dare go no further. The white invaders had removed the trees 400 yards in every direction. It would be nearly impossible for the Powhatan to breach the walls. Their exploding spears made sure of that.

"Three on the Eastern wall," Askuweteau said softly, crouching down beside him. "Exploding spears in hand."

"Two more to the West," Kesegowase said. "Two at the point. Three to the south."

"More than in the past," Gawoni said.

"More inside," Kanuna said. "They've retreated."

"How many though?"

"No way to know."

"Soon they will leave."

"That we do not know," Askuweteau cautioned. He was speaking out of turn, but Megedagik did not censor him. He was right. There was much they did not know about these strange people.

"Then we attack again. Finish what we started."

"Not your decision," Megedagik snapped. "We return to Powhatan. We inform him what we know and what we don't. We do nothing without his say so."

"Of course," everyone agreed. Megedagik looked up at the sky. They could return before sunset if they hurried. The last time he ventured so far from home, he had a swollen, beaten captive not far behind. All he could think of then, was the soft, welcoming embrace of his beautiful young wife. Sweet, loyal, proud Aiyana.

Now, he envisioned a pale face and light brown hair, the color of burnt honey, and eyes the color of walnut. His thoughts had recently become consumed by her.

They were silent as they left the walled city. None were walking the perimeter outside the walls. They found none of the white invaders along their path.

Once they were at a safe distance, they spoke freely, but never did they let down their guard. Still, it was not until they were in the canoe, going along the tributary, and away from the ear of others, that Megedagik spoke to the young warrior behind him.

"Are you pleased with your pale young bride?" he asked.

"Very," Askuweteau answered. "She is a gift from the heavens. I thank you, for speaking for me."

"I regret only I did nothing upon your prompting," Megedagik admitted. It had been something bothering him for some time. What had happened to the girl was horrific. There was no defense of it. She was not their captive, it had not occurred in the heat of battle. It was pure barbarism. And he could have prevented it. It was the only apology Askuweteau would receive.

"I regret it also," he replied boldly. He continued, "Has anyone come to you with word on Matchitehlew? I do not mean to cross any boundaries…"

"I have heard nothing."

"I have heard from Akando that he is just over the ridge, with the Deer Hunters. He is… his shame has not left him. His anger seems to grow every day. I would caution you, if I may be so bold, against allowing the Maskaanna from venturing far beyond the village walls alone. If he were to come upon her… well, I believe he might try and even the score."

"Do you think I should have let her kill him?"

"I would never leave one of our own to die," Askuweteau replied. It gave some relief to Megedagik's heart, but still it ached. "Looking back, he should have died, to kill a child you spared, but we cannot look backwards. With your knowledge at the time, I would have done the very same."

"I value her."

It was a spontaneous admission. Not one he planned to admit to anything. Not even his brother, let alone this young warrior. He'd passed his trials long ago, a man by trials, true, but a boy in many ways. Twenty-eight. Megedagik longed for those days, of such energetic youth.

"The Maskaanna?"

The boy remained respectful. He would be a leader of the tribe one day. Powhatan might even put him in control of a tribe, white wife or not. Megedagik would be wise to make him an ally… and the Maskaanna would be pleased to see the comfort it would bring her pale friend.

"She is stubborn," Megedagik responded. "Angry."

"Are you not still angry?" Askuweteau asked. He immediately added, "Forgive me. That is not my concern."

Megedagik thought back. His sister, his mother, father, two brothers, his village. He still felt the seizure of his heart again.

"It is not something one easily gets over," Megedagik said. It had been Talisa, kind, sweet hearted Talisa that vouched for him, that chose to bring him into the tribe so readily. She loved the pale child, and the pale child was bound to this man. Askuweteau might not know it yet, but these white people… marriage was life-long. He thought back to that copper ring around her finger. He wondered if it transcended death.

"Wawetseka, Sarah, she has told me some of their people. She becomes quite sad when discuss it. I try not to do it often. She spoke of the Maskaanna. Alice. In the winter, you remember, how cold it was? In the winter, she lost a young child. A girl I think. The little boy was her only surviving child. She adored the little boy. She told me the name. I cannot remember it, but she said –"

"William," Megedagik interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"The boy's name. She called him William."

"William. The Maskaanna doted on him. She loved being a mother. And to be left childless. If I can say, and I hope to keep this between us, as my wife told me in confidence, your son, Ahote, was the same age as young William. She focused on rearing the boy, your son, I mean. The loss of him, it had hurt her more than she might pretend."

"She is a natural mother. Like a bear, or a wolf."

"I guess, to answer your question, I do not think she will ever fully get over the death of her son. William."

"Has… has the Pale One spoken to you about marriage?"

"It is… an odd, but not displeasing understanding of marriage."

They arrived at a rough patch and Megedagik lifted his ore and helped steer the canoe. The canoe rocked and swayed, but both men were strong enough to compete with the raging water.

"And it is…?" Megedagik asked once they cleared the choppy water.

"Well, they marry for life. A wife or a husband cannot simply put a husband or wife aside. There must be cause. Marriage is always between a man and a woman, not more, no matter the status. It does not matter if you have the desire or means to provide for more than a wife. It is disallowed in their society."

"How might this be pleasing to me?"

"Well, their men get only one wife, but they have total control. Her words are limited of course, but from what I could gather, a wife obeys her husband. She does what he wishes. She will have responsibilities, but her will is dictated upon that of her husband. You see… I admit, to my shame, I have gathered that… a woman, one of theirs, will not refuse their husband his… gratification, should he require it."

"A fair bit of autonomy they surrender," Megedagik mused. "Why they will only ever be a single wife?"

"That is what I believe," Askuweteau believed. Megedagik felt comfortable enough to continue. He trusted Askuweteau's character, his respect for Megedagik, and he mused further.

"I would take the Maskaanna as a third wife."

"A  _third_ wife?" he said in surprise.

"I am providing for her already. I have the capability."

"Yes, it is just… I have never seen anyone with three wives… not including Powhatan."

"She has made it quite clear she does not wish to be my wife. I wonder, is it because she blames me for the death of her child, or if it is because I have two wives already."

"Would I be going beyond myself if I said I think that as long as you share a lodge with two other women, she will never consider you for a husband?"

Megedagik said nothing. He looked down the river. He rowed twice and then let them coast. They were moving rather quickly as it was. They were far ahead the others. He was anxious to return home.

"I… like I said, it is not something I am proud of but… Wawetseka has never refused a single request I have made of her. Requests I know she wishes not to complete, but not once has she protested. I feel that, and a few things she has said to me… that a husband controls their lives. His word, in his home, is as Powhatan's is in our confederacy: Law."

Megedagik felt a stirring in his bones. What man did not want such dominion over his women. If Aiyana or Chilaili did not desire him, there was nothing he could do. If they wished to leave him, they could. If they did not think he was strong enough, brave enough, a good enough provider, they could put him aside.

He thought of the Maskaanna. She never once refused him. It was not due to a societal dictation that she must obey him. It was fear. He had this control over her, but she was a  _slave._ Not a wife. It was different somehow. To obey out of respect and love, and not the fear of violence. What man would not desire such control and devotion?

"Again, her words are … she is still learning. This was the sense I received." There was a pause. Megedagik said nothing. He was not sure what else to say. He simply thought. "I do think I love her. No. I love her. I know it is so. I have no desire for a second wife. Even if she would accept it. How can you want another woman? When you are in love?"

Megedagik thought. Aiyana was a good woman. A beautiful woman. He thought he loved her. But now his thoughts were consumed of the pale woman with the hair of burnt honey. Sometimes, when he was out hunting, she would creep into his mind. Since the others left, and the celebration ended, he struggled to find enough time alone with her. Aiyana could not know. She would leave him. He lamented that he could not have both.

"We will speak no more of it," Megedagik said.

"Of course," he agreed respectfully. They remained silent for the rest of the journey. Even when they carried the canoes back to the edge of the village.

"The next time I sent out, you will accompany me."

Askuweteau understood the importance of such an assertion.

"Yes, Megedagik. I'd be honored."

Megedagik nodded and turned to leave. He had very little interest in saying anything else. He simply wanted to return him. He was tired. He was hungry. He itched with desire.

Usually, he hoped that he'd return to a not-to-tired Aiyana at the end of such a long summer day. Today, he could muse over nothing but what Askuweteau had said about marriage, but it might be like to have such a marriage with the Maskaanna, and simply the feel of her soft, cool, pale skin, pressed firmly against his own.

* * *

Alice dug the thin strip of bark into the hot coals of the fire and carried them carefully toward the cooking pot. Chilaili had come home with the beans and squash, a promising early harvest, and taught her how to make the vegetable stew. Alice was reluctant to, but in the end was forced to, admit to herself that, in their barbarism, the method was quit ingenious. She smoothed the hot coals around the pointed pot, gently waving at the coals occasionally with the eagle feather fan Chilaili had loaned to her.

Megedagik had left early in the morning. About forty men would be going down the James to their favorite fishing lands. Large, ocean faring fish would be their prize, if they had skill enough to hint. Her savage master, it appeared, was as fine a fishermen as he was a hunter and killer.

Aiyana's days had grown longer and harder. She enjoyed a high rank in their society, but as it did back in England, that came with a huge amount of responsibility. Instead of managing a household made up a hundred or so servants, artisans, and the like, she managed the planting and harvest. Life and death of an entire village. Alice could see the stress on her face when she returned at the end of the day, the red strain in her eyes, the bend in her shoulders. Alice was kinder to Aiyana. When Aiyana asked her for something, she obeyed silently, straight faced, and without protest or attitude. Aiyana appeared to appreciate it and in turn was rarely short when there was a misunderstanding.

Alice scooped up a little spoonful of beans and tapped at them gently. Soft, but not yet ready.

Alice rose from the fire and went back into the lodge. She stepped inside, pulled the curtain to the side, and placed her fingers to her center. She withdrew them, praying she might see red coating her fingers. Her stomach turned when she saw nothing.

She let her dress fall back to her knees and she got to her top toes to look through Chilaili's belongings. She kept them up high on one of the lofts above their heads. She did not know what she was looking at, she hardly knew what she was looking for, but she continued to rummage in vain, as if the mere sight of it would sent a burst of understanding through her.

"Need something?"

Alice jumped and whipped her hands back down. She sent a basket of dogsbane rocketing to the ground. It hit the furs with a soft thud and some spilled out onto the floor.

Chilaili's voice was not angry, not accusatory. It was a genuine question, and she had a kind smile on her lips. Though she was not of the same stature as Aiyana, being a wife of Megedagik, Chilaili was often busy in the fields as well, overlooking the weeding and tending of some of the smaller plots. She was gone often, but managed to slip away back to the lodge for a drink or short rest occasionally.

"Oh, I..." Alice looked over her shoulder to the other door opening. It was the one Megedagik always kept closed. It was only opened when the hut needed to be drained of its stale, stagnant air. She looked back at Chilaili and bit her lip in contemplation. "Chilaili, can I trust you with a secret?"

Chilaili's brow lifted and she nodded eagerly. Alice approached and seized both her hands.

"Do you have a way to... root out a child?"

Her eyes widened in understanding.

"You are pregnant?" she asked in surprise. Alice hushed her, though Chilaili was already being rather quiet.

"I have reason to believe so," she answered.

"And... you do not want it?" She asked. Alice lowered her gaze and shook her head.

"It will make you ill," Chilaili said with no further inquiry or judgement. She went into her things. "I would suggest you take it when he is away. He may recognize the symptoms."

Alice nodded. Chilaili got back to the flat of her feet with a bundle of roots in her brown hand.

"Boil it into a tea. Strip some and leave it to soak in the water. You will grow very ill, but when you recover, and you will, the baby will be no more."

"Thank you," Alice answered with a small voice. Her heart ached.

"If you are discovered, please, you did not get this from me."

"I promise it."

Chilaili smiled, picked up the spilled dogsbane, collected a small jar of honey she has come to collect, and left without another word on the subject.

Alice lit the interior fire. She cared not for anyone to see and recognize the root. With slightly trembling fingers and stripped the back from the root and prepared the boiling water. She walked from the hut to check the soul and to turn the turkey on the spit.

She sat underneath the sweltering son. It was warm again. Warm for the summer. Long stretches of thick, wet heat. Sweat drilled from her temple and she always felt nauseous.

She did not think she could bear another child. Another child to lose. It was easier when they died in the womb. You ever had to hear them cry, listen to them laugh, feel their tiny, trusting hand close around a finger, see the look of wondrous love in their eyes as they gazed up at you. A pain all the same, but not the type that left you empty and hollow with despair.

Yet, she longed to feel that tiny, warm body in her arms. To press her cheek to the top of a fuzzy little head. To hold the child close and feel that precious love.

She looked around and the village around her. The huts, the dirt, the savages. She once again saw the violence, felt hands around her threat, squeezing the life out of her with cold blooded savagery. The hammer shattering her boy's soft little skull.

She swayed, eyes closing. She pushed herself up to her feet. She would not subject her child to this way of life. She would not bear a child that would not be raised a Christian. She would not see her child raised savage.

She stopped before the boiling water and waited for it to grow strong. So certain was she that she needed to act immediately should she change her mind, she drank the tea far too hot. She burnt her lips, her tongue stung, but she drank it down fast.

She returned to cooking, and by the time the first pangs erupted from within her stomach, she had finished the meal for the day. She was amazed at how quickly it took hold. She clutched at her stomach as she entered the lodge. She laid down, but the moment she did, the nausea came.

She leaned forward and grabbed an empty cooking pot. She emptied the meager contents of her stomach into the pot. She heaved, the pains her stomach worsening. It was a terrible cramping. She ground her teeth. She fisted the furs hard.

The pain grew so badly, she hardly noticed the passage of time. She simply suffered through it. By the time it ended, her stomach was completely, her head thudded, and her thighs were wet with a dabbings of blood. It had been early. There wasn't much to expel. She's suffered far greater miscarriages in the passed. Long, hot summer days, bling beneath the hull of the ship were not conducive to child bearing.

She pushed herself up on shaky limbs and walked to the river outside the walls. Chilaili was seated by the fire. She said nothing to Alice as she left.

She stopped in her favorite spot. It was quiet, secluded. She could hear nothing but the birds, the occasional hum of the heat bugs.

She splashed her face with water. It fresh. Not at all the water they have at the fort. Dark, brown brackish water. She wetted her neck and cheeks, ducked her head into the water and rang it out.

She sat back on the bank, listening to the birds and crying. She felt the loss of the child. How could she not? She ended a little life it was her duty to protect, but she reminded herself what would become of it. It eased her heart, soul and conscious. She begged the Lord for forgiveness regardless.

When she rose it was near dusk, but she did not go straight home. She walked along the bank of the river to one of its more violent sections. The water crashed and roiled angrily against the jagged stones beneath. She wondered if this was where Milap went into the water. If he drowned, or if the rocks pulled him apart.

She envisioned throwing herself into the white foam. It would put an end to the hollowness, the ever present, aching emptiness left within her breast. She'd be with William, little Jane, Lawrence. But it was not the threat of eternal damnation that had her stepped away from the ledge and back toward the gates of the village. It was the pain she suffered through today. To just jump into the river now... what a waste that would be.

She returned to an angry Megedagik. For a moment, she thought Chilaili had betrayed her confidence. The towering savage, wearing just a simple wrap around his waist, angry looking axe tucked in and pressed against his belly button, he reached out and seized the shoulders of her dress with each hand. He tugged her closer with both hands. It frightened her, but he gripped onto the deer hide of her dress.

"You do not remain passed the village walls after sunset," he all but barked at her. "You are not safe beyond the walls."

"I'm sorry," she answered simply. He released her.

"He worries about the People of the Pine," Chilaili mused gently as Alice sat down beside her. She had prepared some of Megedagik's catch from the day. "Revenge. They are a violent people."

"Was he one of them?" She asked. She looked at Megedagik. He blinked at her, stone faced. "Was the man that killed my boy. One. Of. Them."

"No," he said simply. Aiyana had lifted her eyes at the question, but lowered them again. She rose with a sign and patted Megedagik's shoulder. She kissed his cheek and told him she was going to sleep.

Alice ate silently. She did not eat much. Her stomach still turned. She had no appetite.

"Maskaanna," Megedagik said some time later. He rose, lean muscle stretching handsomely across his strong limbs and long torso.

"Yes?"

"I wish to show you something," he said, holding out his hand to her. She extended a hand and allowed him to pull her to his feet.

She followed him to gates of the village and beyond, through a tiny little trail.

"I thought I was not allowed passed the walls after dark," she mused with dry sarcasm.

"I am here to protect you," he answered matter-of-factly. She paused, unsure where she was supposed to go. His hands closed over her shoulders. It startled her. His body was warm as it pressed to her back. "I will keep you safe," he vowed softly, lips close to her ear. "Your life would be far more difficult without my aid. The fair-child as well. My influence has helped her greatly."

It was not so much a threat as a well-intentioned warning. Be thankful you've caught my eye, he might have said. She nodded and he moved passed her, releasing her shoulders. He took her hand as he went, leading her carefully into the brush.

The night was warm, humid. Heat bugs hummed in waves, an owl was making itself known in the distance, a squirrel, startled, scurried overhead. She had never ventured into a Forrest so late. It was frightening, yet slightly exciting. The savages presence gave her a sense of invincibility. She was surprised at the faith she had in him to keep her from harm.

She heard the rush of water. They were nearing a river. Not the James. She did not think it would be so loud this time of year. How far had they walked? She was not sure.

They ventured on some time longer. Her legs began to ache and she felt a bit light headed. Her hunger was catching up to her. Her empty stomach ached.

Soon, they stepped out of the thick brush. His hand closed around her wrist, keeping her from advancing forward. It was a good thing too. The sharp drop down was rocky and treacherous. If she survived it, she'd have been horridly injured. Beneath, she could hear the strong trickle of the river below.

Above was a huge expanse of sky. Stretching open from around the trees. Not a cloud was in the sky. Stars stretched out for miles and miles above. Bright, magnificent. Her lips parted and she forgot where she was or who she was with. She imagined she was back home in Yorkshire, sitting outside the chicken coup at night, staring up at the stars. Her mother would be putting the young ones to bed. Her dad would be lying down and sucking on his pipe. She blinked back some tears.

"You cannot come here alone," he reminded her. "We are too far from the village."

She nodded. "Can we stay a while?"

"We can."

She sat down on the forest floor. Her eyes still pinned upward.

He settled down beside her. He sat proudly, legs crossed, back straight, shoulders back. His eyes were raised upward as well.

She reached up and touched the pouch around her neck. She squeezed it tightly.

"We never should have left England," she whispered. She closed her eyes and a tear dribbled down her cheek. It fell over her lips. She could taste the salt of her tears.

He turned her chin gently. He had her look at him.

"Your home is here now," he told her.

"Why not send me back?" She whispered to him. She could see him in the moonlight, but it was still a dark night. It was different than speaking to him in the light. It was safer. "You have Aiyana."

"But I want you," he answered simply. His fingertips moved over her cheekbone. She sighed deeply and shook her head. He kissed her anyway.

His lips were soft, the kiss surprisingly tender. His hands touched her face. It was soothing. It had been a long time since she felt this kind of touch. Not the rough hands of an entitled conqueror, looking for nothing but physical gratification from one who cannot resist. It made her want to weep.

She kissed him back softly. She raised her hands to his shoulders. The muscles were taught beneath her hands, strong and firm. She was overrun with a feeling a weakness, a need to feel sheltered and protected. It had been robbed from her the day they came into her life, killing and robbing and looting. She was too weak not to allow her to feel it now.

His hand closed around the back of her neck, firmly. As he had before, but she felt no threat in it. The last bits of resistance slowly chipped away as his other hand caress her cheek, tilted her head back to he could kiss her more deeply.

She stopped him with a hand between their mouths. Her ruined finger nails on his lips, holding him momentarily at bay. His dark eyes twinkled in the moonlight. So very savage and pure. She remembered what she thought of savages when they were first discovered. Noble and pure, like the first man, in need only of the one true God and his Son to be brought to their hearts.

Her free hand moved down his bulging bicep. She could feel the heat, the lift of his veins beneath the brown skin. The last of her resolve faltered.

"This changes nothing between us," she whispered. He nodded and gave a simple, "yes."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his lips back to hers. As he lowered her down to soft earth beneath them, hands gently sliding up her thighs, bunching her dress up at his wrists, she let the wall come down and took comfort in the savage's touch. The few moments of relief would be worth the shame she felt in the morning.


	21. XXI

XXIII

He grunted into her ear, lips parted and breathing heavily against her face. A hand was pressed to her forehead, tilting her head back so she gazed up at the ceiling with parted lips. His other hands gripped the furs above her head tightly, knuckles white and bulging. Her own panting breaths filled the air, nearly buried by the rain slapping against the top of the lodge. Her legs wrapped lazily around his hips, her ruined nails left little trails of red in their wake.

Finally, his thrusts turned erratic, his hand pressed down roughly on her head, his grunts became low bursts from behind grinding teeth. A low sigh of satisfaction left her as he finished and she waited for him to roll off her. He lingered. He kissed her cheek, he licked her earlobe. He licked her neck. He breathed in deeply against her hair and then leaned back to put a kiss to her mouth.

He rolled off her and put the breechcloth back on. Alice remained where she was, lying naked against the furs. She trailed her hand over her belly, gazing at the fire. She thought of Lawrence, as she often did after laying with her savage captor. She apologized to him, begged for forgiveness, and spent a good long time convincing herself that he would understand. If she had died, he would have certainly remarried. This was not so different. It was a means of coping, a way to survive.

Megedagik lit his pipe and took a deep breath. He turned his head toward the pulled lodge flap and then glanced down at her. She moved her eyes to look at her stomach. She trailed a finger over a jagged line of white, discolored skin. She wondered how bi her belly might have been by now if she had made the different choice.

Megedagik reached over and seized her dress. He handed it to her and ordered she dress. She remained on the floor a moment or so longer, considering a moment longer. She pulled the dress over her head and once covered, he moved over to open the tent flap. He liked watching the rain as he smoked. She began to make some tea.

"I will be gone some while," he suddenly said. "A few days, a week, maybe more," he said. "I leave tomorrow."

"Where are you going?"

"West, a hunt with a neighboring tribe."

Alice said nothing. She moved to collect the jug of wine and poured herself a cup.

"Come winter, you will have no more," he informed her. "Once the wine runs out."

The statement filled her with panic, but she remained stony faced.

"You have no small beer and I tire of tea," she replied. He grunted, disbelieving her reason. She did not much care, she was just glad he let it go.

"While you are gone, might I stay with Sarah?" Alice asked. He looked at her. He was a grim looking man. Eyes so dark, brow severe.

"This is your home," he replied. "You will remain here."

She did not protest. She simply did not particularly enjoy spending time with his two wives. Chilaili talked too much. She believed they were friends. They weren't. And Aiyana managing to inspire a feeling of horrible guilt. Even her haughty, sometimes rude, unwarranted, behavior did little to temper the guilt. She was a reminder of all that Alice had become, and she hated her for it.

"Does Aiyana hurt you?"

"Hurt me?" she asked in aggressive surprise. "No, she does not  _hurt_ me."

"Then why ask to leave."

"I wish to be with one of my own. Surely, that is not difficult to comprehend," she replied. His lips curved up and a bemused chuckle escaped him. He was difficult to understand. Sometimes, her rude words were greeted with anger and a thorough scolding. Other times, they were greeted with chuckles and a begrudging amusement. Initially, she had believed it depended on how silly her remarks sounded, her words so limited. But she soon realized that whether or not she was speaking correctly had no correlation with his reactions.

He sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. It was the foul-smelling stuff she did not like. A type of tobacco that Europeans had little affection for, but these savages planted it in abundance. He sucked it in rather rapidly. It put him in a fine enough mood, and so she was rather pleased when he ordered her to pack his pipe with the smelly tobacco.

"You will not leave the city walls while I am gone. The Pale One may come to you here," he stated. She looked at him a moment, registering his words. Slowly the anger crept up inside of her and she focused on the slow, deep breath she sucked into her lungs.

"I prefer it at Ahanu's. It is quiet."

"And unprotected. The village is safe."

"She doesn't like being inside the walls. People stare and mock her."

"They will not while she is at my fire," he said confidently. He looked out at the rain. It was a sheet of water. Thunder grumbled off in the distance.

"I do not see why –"

"Do you wish to keep your hair?" he asked sharply. "Because I can remove your scalp now if you are so desperate to lose it."

She said nothing. She lowered her eyes to the ground and raised the wine to her lips. He sucked on the pipe again.

"Am I still allowed to go to the river?" she asked. She was unsure why she attempted to get his permission. She would do as she wished regardless of his response. "Ahanu will be there."

"If he escorts you from the village walls and back again."

"Then why can the same not be said for his lodge?"

He looked at her, dark eyes bemused. She was almost tempted to smile.

"The river is populated throughout the day. His lodge is not," he replied, a challenge shining in his eyes. He brought the pipe to his lips. She considered pushing him further, but a thrashing was not worth the desire to fight. He would be gone and she would do as she pleased regardless. Aiyana could be annoying with her requests, with her need to show a physical manifestation of her superiority, but truly, she cared little about what Alice did, so long as she did it elsewhere. She might not know the extent of their relationship, but Aiyana had a sharp mind, and she knew something was not quite right.

"I will do as you say," she relented. She examined her finger nails.

"I doubt it," he huffed. "That is why I have asked Lonato to keep a close eye on you. He and his wife will report back to me when I return. If I am disobeyed, you will be punished."

"Lonato?" she asked.

"A trusted friend."

"If he is such a friend why have I never heard his name until now?"

"You feasted at his fire," he said, sucking on the pipe. "If you were in such a drunken stupor you cannot remember that is no concern of mine."

She said nothing. She squinted out into the rain.

"We are to feast there tonight. You can meet him anew," Megedagik mused.

Alice looked at the wine in her hands. She raised it to her lips and took a large sip. She put it down and reached for her bear pelt. It was surprisingly cool out. The rain continued to patter down hard outside.

"Why are you going so far?" Alice asked. "For this hunt."

"It is our way," he replied. She nodded and picked at her nails.

"Lawrence was never a great hunter, but he had a way with crops and he always had chickens and cows, even when I did not think we could afford even the feed," she looked up at a wall, covered with baskets, tools, bundles. "What I would not give for a warm porridge. Do I have time for a short nap?"

He did nothing but give a single, slow nod. She pulled brought the wine back to her lips and finished the cup. She covered herself with the bear pelt and snuggled into the corner. A low rumble of thunder off in the distance, the pitter patter of rain, and the whistling wind, and she was fast asleep.

She was rather surprised at the tenderness in which she was pulled from her sleep. A single finger trailed her hairline, down to her ear, placing any loose strands of hair back into place. Next, a large hand pressed to her shoulder. He squeezed gently. He gave a gentle nudge.

"Maskaanna," he said softly. She let out a tiny sigh of protest. He persisted, no less tender, but with a bit more force. Finally, her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at her savage captor. He had a golden ring in the piercing of his nose. His earrings hung down toward her. The necklaces around his neck gently rocked against her arm. She raised a hand to wipe her tired eyes. She did not want to wake. She felt as though she could sleep for hours longer, comfortable in her cocoon of warmth.

"What time is it?" she asked softly. She did not even realize she was speaking English.

"The rain has stopped," he informed her. His hand stayed on her arm. He loomed over her. His other hand collected the little pouch of rocks around her neck and he examined it closely. She looked down at it and then tilted her head back. She let her eyes close and nearly fell back to sleep. She was ripped back into consciousness by his low rumble and a gentle pat to her cheek.

"You must rise," he pressed. "If you wish, you may go to the river and fetch Askuweteau and the Pale One. They are welcome at Lonata's fire tonight."

She nodded as she sat up, wiping her eyes and looking around in a tired daze. She stared off at the open tent flap, trying to wake herself. She heard birds. Sun was now shining. The earth was still wet.

She reached over for her shoes and pulled them on. They were quite comfortable, but she still disliked walking in them. There was little support, and she still sometimes felt a rock or two press hard into the soft soles of her feet and cause discomfort. Her feet could move around too much inside them, even when she tied them tightly. She missed the support and security of an uncomfortable boot of weathered leather. She combed through her hair and put it into a simple bun. Megedagik had left the hut. When she stepped outside she squinted and raised a hand to her eyes. It was far too bright.

"I can leave then?" she asked Megedagik. He was seated beside Aiyana. She was rubbing oil into his scalp. She ignored Alice's presence. Megedagik gave a nod. He had his pipe up to his lips but he did not take a huff. He stared at her, his nod all the communication he seemed willing to provide. She took it and left.

She went to the river but found Ahanu's normal spot unoccupied. She followed the trail down to his lodge. She begrudgingly admitted to herself that the trek to the river and the trek to the lodge were quite different. The walk to the river was short, open, and well used. The little trail to Ahanu and Sarah's home was narrow, windy, and used by a precious few.

She stepped into the clearing and found Ahanu seated at his fire with a number of his friends. She knew them, not well, but felt comfortable enough to approach with no hesitation.

"Maskaanna," Ahanu greeted. "Sarah is lying down. She is not feeling well."

Alice nodded and looked at the lodge.

"Megedagik says you are welcome at Lonata's fire tonight," she said. "I was sent to give you the invitation."

Surprise flickered across the faces off all men at the fire, but none as great as Ahanu's. He got to his feet, eyes widened ever so slightly, and he stepped a bit closer.

"That is true? He said that?"

"I promise," she vowed. "Will you attend? I would like Sarah to attend with me."

"That is not an invitation you refuse," one of his friends stated. Ahanu nodded and said the same thing in as many words. Alice nodded and walked away from them without a word. She looked into the lodge and found Sarah lying on the far edge, a light blanket draped over her. Alice was ready to retreat and leave her be when Sarah rolled over and looked at her.

"I'm awake. Do not leave," Sarah beckoned her closer. Alice walked into the hut and got to her hands and knees. She crawled the rest of the way and lay down beside her friend.

"You are ill?" Alice asked. Concern crept into her voice, but Sarah shook her head.

"I think not. I've been terribly nauseous. Past two days. Same thing happened to me two summers ago. Do you remember, when I had that wretched Salmon?"

Alice turned her eyes up to the ceiling.

"Two days?"

"Third today. I will never eat another piece of fish again. I swear it, Alice. It is dangerous for one's health."

Alice tried to laugh, but only a smile and a gust of air escaping from her nostrils resulted.

"Did you hear what I spoke to Ahanu about?"

"I did. I will go of course. My stomach usually settles in the evening."

 _An odd schedule for soiled fish,_ Alice thought darkly.

"Do you have any wine here?" she asked. Sarah nodded and pointed to the corner. Alice poured herself a helping serving, gulped it down, ignoring the curious, concerned gaze of her foolish young friend, and then laid down beside her for a second, undisturbed, dreamless, rest.

* * *

The birds were chirping happily, an angry squirrel squeaked furiously from a nearby tree, and the sounds of children's delightful cries could be heard all the way from the river side. Alice listened with a strange sense of sadness, but the sounds had very little to do with the feeling of loss nestled within her chest. She watched Megedagik say his farewells to Aiyana from her spot by the fire. The beans were cooking slowly. The squash roasting. It smelled heavenly.

Aiyana was tearful. Megedagik held her shoulders gently. He spoke softly, gentle, tender words. Alice looked away from the tender scene. It felt wrong, after everything she had done with the savage man, do watch such an intimate exchange. She felt badly for Aiyana. Not that she had to say goodbye for a week or so; Alice would never see her husband again, she had very little sympathy on that front. Instead, it was the deceit. Aiyana was not a simple woman. She had a sense, but Alice did not believe she believed for one second that every time her husband, the man she loved so much, had a chance, he took Alice to his bed. Fur. In the passing weeks, it seemed as though his carnal attentions were saved nearly primarily for her. Still, Alice would never say a word.

The two parted. Aiyana went about collecting some items to bring back to the fields. Megedagik paused. Alice knew his face was turned toward her. She did not look up. He lingered a moment and turned to leave. She heard his feet walking across the hard ground. Her heart fluttered. She felt a sense of panic and looked up. His name tumbled out of her lips before she even knew she was speaking. He turned to look at her. She simply stared back. He waited. It felt like an eternity.

"I will pray for your safe return," she said. He stared back a few moments more. A curt nod.

"You will not stay far from my thoughts," he answered.

She looked down at the pot of squash. She jabbed at it with her stick.

"Alice."

She looked up at the sound of her name.

"You will not leave the village walls alone," he ordered. She nodded.

"I promise."

Another moment of pause. A breath, no more, and his eyes flickered to Aiyana. He nodded to her and was gone. Alice glanced up. He was gone but she watched after him. She felt a strange hollowness in her chest. Besides Sarah, she counted him her only friend. She had not quite thought of him in that manner until that very moment. She looked toward the empty trail, jabbing lazily at the beans. She ignored the piercing gaze of her rival. She felt it in her bones. She felt it tingle on her skin. Still, she ignored her. Instead, she stared after the departed savage. Her captor, rapist, protector, and lover. She would allow herself to miss him. It was a decision she made in that moment. And she would pray for him. He would have spared her son. She wanted him to return.

Finally, she turned her head to face Aiyana. She was standing not far from her, at the edge of the outside fire. Her things were in her hands. Her eyes were hard. Alice stared back at her, refusing to look away. If Aiyana wanted to say it aloud, she could, and Alice would not lie, but she knew better. Aiyana would say nothing. She could not bring herself too. A woman in love with a man she worshiped. Without further proof, why would one open themselves up to the pain?

"I'll be in the fields," she told Alice. Alice said nothing. She stared back. "I will not be back home tonight. Go where you wish, do what you want."

"Thank you," Alice said. Aiyana stared longer. She gave a jerky nod and turned. She licked her lower lip. She walked away, shaking her head as she went. Once again, Alice felt a wave of guilt and shame. She reached out and grabbed the jug of wine. She did not waste time pouring it. She brought it to her lips, and drank greedily.

* * *

Alice walked down to the river and found Ahanu in his normal spot. He was always there early. He liked to have enough work done that he could leave by the time Sarah left the fields. He said nothing as she sat down with her stack of shirts. She sat with him out of safety. He understood that. He was never cold, he was never mean, but he was one comfortable with silence, and Alice preferred silence. All he did as she approached, was provide a smile.

She plopped down and began mending the items she had received the evening before. Mostly men's clothing. They always seemed to be ripping or ruining their clothing. It reminded her of Lawrence and William. She laughed softly.

"What is so funny, Maskaanna?" Ahanu asked. She looked up in surprise. She had not realized she was laughing.

"Oh. Nothing," she answered. He did not press and returned to his canoe. She observed the man that would soon be the father to Sarah's first child. He was rising within the Powhatan society. He was young, handsome, strong, fit, a fine hunter by all accounts, and had a strong means of supporting himself and a family. And he had only one wife. For a savage, Sarah had lucked out with her choice of husband. Megedagik still held two additional wives, and Alice would be second to no woman.

She moved down to the edge of the bank and dipped a shirt into the water. She grabbed her rock from the basket. What she would give for a real wash board.

" _You must make me a fine holland shirt, Blow, blow, blow, ye winds, blow,"_ she sang softly to herself. She was not even aware the sounds were leaving her lips. Ahanu glanced over briefly, but said nothing. " _and not have in it a stitch of needlework_ ,  _Blow, ye winds that arise, blow, blow."_

She scraped the rock against the shirt. She wondered if the smell of his tobacco would be gone before he returned from the hunt. She hoped so. She hated the foul smelling stuff.

" _you must wash it in yonder spring… where there's never a drop of water in…you must dry on yonder thorn… where the sun never yet shone on."_

She examined the shirt. She scrubbed harder at the stain. The tobacco she had tried once. It made her feel light headed, a bit strange, he had told her to suck it in hard, fast. It calmed her, the same way the wine did. Maybe he would share when winter came. If he returned safely.

" _My father's got an acre of land… you must dig it with a goose quill… you must sow it with one seed…. You must reap it with your thumbnail…. You must thrash it on yonder sea... and not get it wet or let a kernel be…"_

She didn't think Aiyana would have taken kindly if she had been there that day. He had sat beside her, holding the pipe to her lips himself, ordering to breath in deeply. He leaned in, placed his lips to hers, and sucked in the smoke from her mouth. He pushed it out through his nose. She wondered if he did the like with Aiyana.

" _you must grind it on yonder hill… where there yet has ne'er stood a mill… when you're done and finished your work… bring it unto me and you shall have your shirt."_

Well, when winter comes, and Aiyana does not have to be in the fields, they would see who the gloomy warrior paid his attention to…

"That was very pretty!" Ahanu praised. "A song of your people?"

"An amusing song to bide time," she answered.

"Megedagik would like to hear you sing. Has he?"

"No," she answered curtly. She did not want discussion. She wanted to be left alone.

"Will you sing another?" he asked. She looked at him. He asked earnestly, genuinely. She would sing another, but only because believed there was little malice in the savage man before her. By the time she finished her work and wondered back to Ahanu's lodge to greet Sarah, pot resting on her thighs, face angled downward, a half-digested breakfast resting within, she was still singing.

* * *

It was not a hunt with another tribe. That was a lie meant to save the Maskaanna from reopening old wounds. It was another excursion into the lands the white invaders had attempted to steal from them. They traveled a day or so down the York, moving slowly, fishing as they went, looking for any signs of white fishing boats or hunters. They crossed the land parallel with Hog Island, where the English had set lose wild hogs to help sustain them in the winter, and where Megedagik had lead a raid to slaughter them all the year before. It was one of the many reasons so many of the English had starved the winter previous. They moved across the land, checking carefully for traps, hunting parties. Their instructions, kill on sight. Megedagik almost hoped they might come across a small squad. He was itching for a fight.

In the first few days they saw nothing of note. Any old camp sites or fire pits had clearly not been used in weeks at the minimum. They found no traps, saw no white invaders. It was not until they were nearing what the English called the James that they saw signs of movement. In one of the larger tributaries leading back to the mighty river, a small boat lay on the shore. The Powhatan raiders were careful, patient, but a day and a half of observation, it became clear it had been abandoned. They finally approached the boat and discovered the supplies gone, a exploding dagger within.

Megedagik picked it up. He sniffled it. The powder had a bitter smell. He rubbed a finger along the flash pan. He pressed it to his tongue and spit onto the ground. He held it out, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

"Witchcraft?" Gawoni shuddered.

"They set a flame," Kesegowase spoke. Megedagik did not very much care. He put the pistol in his belt and examined the surrounding bank. He saw boot prints. It wasn't so long ago they were hear.

"Kesegowase, bring Gawoni and Wabun. Go to the West, follow that trail. Engage only if we have comparable numbers. If not, sent one back for us. We'll be skirting along to the East."

Nods of understanding and they were gone. Megedagik followed the other trail to the west. He had not said it, but his words were clear enough. The trails were to be tracked to the source. As a result, two days passed before the two groups met again, and it was at the edge of a large clearing. A group of men, ten in all, sat around a fire, exploding spears in their laps, metal armor wrapped around their bodies.

"Hunting party?" Kanuna asked.

"Looking for survivors?"

"It's been months," Kanuna replied, unimpressed with the thought.

"And they have women unaccounted for. Would you not search for your wife until you knew her fate?"

Megedagik's brow furrowed and he looked out at the men seated around the fire. He wondered if any of them were the Maskaanna's husband. He quickly brushed the thought to the side. He had been at her village. Hardly a man survived.

"We wait for night fall. We'll stand no chance charging into an open field against their spears. Rest, Kesegowase, keep watch. If any of them move, awake the others."

"Where will you be?" his brother asked.

"Scouting up ahead a bit. I want to be sure there are no more patrols."

Another nod and his orders were obeyed. He moved a few inches, body low, and disappeared into the forest.

* * *

Edward Clarke laughed as he took a deep swig of the rum in his canteen. They'd been out for days without a single sign of a savage. Retreated to their hovels, sated for now with their barbarity. Edward had taken to drink recently. His wife, son, and three daughters had been butchered in the attack. His youngest but three years old. He could still remember, crawling out from the pit of bodies and finding her, white nightgown soaked red. He had cradled her little body in his arms for hours, unable to let go.

"Once England hears word, they'll send more soldiers, King Jimmy won't less this stand I tell you," Henry Boggs said, jabbing at the fire with a crooked stick. He had sad eyes. The massacre had hit the grizzled old soldier hard, though he had arrived at the Fort just weeks before the butchery, and had no family killed. He had helped burn the bodies. He'd scooped up one too many little girls in red dresses to ever really smile again.

"If that ship ever reaches. It's been four months," Henry Taylor lamented. "We'll die here. Like old Roanoke. We're dead already."

"Well aren't you fucking chipper," Edward Clarke mused gruffly. He took another swig of rum. He'd only paid a penny for the whole jug. Bought it off a man that starved to death three days later.

"It took three months to cross, at least," Roger Coke cautioned. "Supplies and instructions will return before summer's end."

"Hardly survived the last winter, won't survive another now," John Melbourne mused darkly. "Not without provisions. We can't all stay at the fort."

"We can and will," John Hunt said. He was a short tempered man. He'd lost a son and wife in the attack, but his little girl lived, and if a word was said that put in doubt the future and safety of his little princess, there would be hell to pay. John Melbourne turned his gaze to the man he shared a name with. He had been stationed at the fort at the time of the attack, a soldier since he was old enough to enlist. He'd lost no one, but he felt the loss of others all the same. He'd said from the beginning there should be no attempts to spare these animals, to befriend them. Kill on sight, every single one they could find.

"I left a girl back in England. Said I'd call for her when I had a house built. No way she comes now," William Canton lamented. Only Edward Clarke seemed in a fine enough mood. It was the drink. He needed it to get by.

"Stop your fuckin' moanin'," Thomas Yates barked and got to his feet. He slapped his friend, Charles Young, on the back and the youth rose, red cheeked from his sip of rum. They were cousins, though nothing at all alike. One, Charles, was young, youthful, soft spoken, with a ruddy complexion. Tom Yates, leathery faced, tanned, gruff, and looked ten years older than he was. Both had been at the fort. Neither lost anyone they loved. "She'll come. She's a fifth daughter?"

"Sixth," William corrected.

"Probably'll be on the boat back," Tom Yates laughed. "I'm goin' to take a piss."

He wondered off to the edge of the clearing. Charles walked close by. No one was to go anywhere alone. Captain George Bailey's orders. He'd been stationed at the fort. His wife had gone to visit with her sister two days before the attack. She'd brought their oldest boy for protection. He'd found their skeletons in the charred remains of the house four days later. He now sat silently, staring into the flames.

"Just hope when the times come, I can kill as many of their children as possible," John Melbourne mused. "As many of em as they did ours."

"I couldn't kill a child," William Canton said with reserved distaste.

"They didn't kill one of your own," Edward Clarke said, though he wasn't sure he could murder a child either, savage or not.

"Didn't kill one of his either," William Canton pointed out.

"We aren't killing children," Captain Bailey said. "Least no time soon. We can't do anything until reinforcements arrive."

"They'll arrive though you think?" Henry Taylor asked. He wasn't an attractive man. He had big front teeth and a small nose, skin dotted with pock marks. He had an anxious manner and never saw the silver lining.

"They will," Captain Bailey said. He had a calming presence. He was a good captain.

"What uh…" Roger Coke started. He was picking at a cuticle with his dagger. "What you think became of those women they stole?"

"Dead if they're lucky," John Melbourne said.

"Shudder to think about it," William Canton agreed.

"Better not to waste time agonizing over it," Captain Bailey cautioned. He was a good friends a man that did not know the fate of his wife. The man was convinced she lived. Many doubted it. His son was missing as well. No bodies left at the house. But no other children had been taken. Both were most likely dead.

Edward Clarke glanced over his shoulder. A frown came to his lips.

"Oi… where's Yates? Young?"

Everyone turned to look. All reached for their guns as they did.

"Idiots just went off to bugger each other," John Hunt said, but he too had his gun in his hand. Pans were opened and primer was poured inside. The ropes that hung around their bodies, all carrying little pre-poured charges, were grabbed at. Powder was poured down the barrel of the gun.

"Yates! Young! Stop buggering another and come back!" John Melbourne called. He was slamming his ramrod down the musket barrel. Even in his cups, Edward Clarke already had his match cord lit and ready.

"Savages this close to the fort?" William Canton's voice was hushed. "Why?"

"Quiet," Captain Bailey ordered. He readied his gun. "Fan out and follow. Melbourne, keep an eye on the rear. Canton, Taylor, the flanks. Clarke, by me."

"Sir, with respect Captain, we should stay in the open. The savages don't do well in a charge. The woods, well, that's their ground."

"We don't abandon our men. We hardly have any left," Captain Bailey responded. There was little room for argument. Clarke said nothing and fell in line. They advanced toward the tree line, hands sweaty, hearts pounding, eyes alert.

* * *

Megedagik watched as Wabun dragged the second body into the underbrush. A young boy, cheeks red, eyes forever open, a vivid blue. It appeared the sickness was not so rare among their people.

"Advancing," Gawoni called softly.

"Fan out," he ordered. "Kesegowase."

His brother understood. He moved out. Far to the North. He took Wabun with him. Megedagik waited, heart pounding. His hands grew sweaty. His eyes were wide and alert. He loved the feeling. He did not kill for pleasure, but he would lie if he said the adrenaline was not addictive. The white invaders all advanced, coming directly toward them, metal bodies, exploding spears ready. A single blast. All they needed to avoid. The white men called out. The same words over and over. Names. Megedagik was struck with a feeling of guilt. He thought of the Maskaanna. The guilt passed as they approached. Invaders, like the others, their names meant nothing.

One man barked out orders. He was Megedagik's. He squeezed his hatchet in his hand. Where to hit. The body was protected. Neck a small target. Face? Head covered with a pointy, shiny covering. The thigh. The right strike, he'd bleed out in moments, fast and painless. He hunched down lower into the landscape. His heart pounded. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple. He could not see his companions. Good, they were well hidden.

The white men stepped just to the tree line. Some words called out. The man in charge gave an order. He stepped out first. A brave man clearly. He had spots on his skin. Hair the color of fire. How odd these people could look. One of them tried to speak, but his words were cut off abruptly. Wabun stood, but a foot from them, and through his hatchet with such force, it imbedded itself three inches into his face. By the time the white men pointed their guns, he was gone, the dead white man crumpled on the ground on the heap.

Kesegowase jumped out from behind. An arrow through the back of the thigh. A screech and he landed on his knees. He jumped forward, his throat was slit cleanly. A fast death. Another turned. A knife sunk deeply into his throat by Gawoni. Wabun re-appeared. He came caring, a frightful shriek leaving his throat. The white commander turned and swung. He was fast. The exploding spear hit Wabun's wrist and he cried out loudly. Megedagik had to change his course. He lurched out and sent a blade across the back of his neck. He fell, hand to the back of his neck, and he abandoned his exploding spear. He reached for his belt and scrambled backwards. Megedagik advanced, hatched at the ready. The man drew a knife, his eyes went wide as he held it upward, but Megedagik threw the hatched down at his thigh. It sunk in deeply. Megedagik tore it free. His face was covered with blood splatter. It leapt from the wound, spurting into the air. He screeched, eyes wide, and his hands were free. He had no need to hold onto weapons. He instead, pressed his hands to his wound. Blood oozed from between his white fingers.

Megedagik rose. He slammed the bloody hatchet into the side of his head. It sank in deeply into his ear, imbedding deeply into his skull. The light left his eyes, and he was dead. Gawoni yanked Wabun to his feet, and the two descended upon the sixth victim. An ugly man. Large teeth. Dotted face. He was stabbed in the groin. He landed a punch or two, and then collapsed with a jab to the throat.

The others, cowardly, wisely, turned and ran. One stumbled. He was descended upon quickly. Kesegowase ripped off his helmet. He had the man half scalped before he whirled around. Punching blindly through the blood in his eyes. Kesegowase landed punch to his node. He stabbed him in the thigh, and then proceeded with the scalping.

Megedagik followed the other two. Heart racing, he chased him back into the open field. He tackled him to the ground. He bashed his skull to the hard surface of the clearing, and once the white man was disoriented enough, readied the blade of his throat.

"William!" he suddenly cried, begging his friend for aid. The friend kept running, but Megedagik froze. William. Alice's son. It was enough time. The white man jabbed him hard in the throat. He kneed him harder in the groin. Megedagik cried out, he turned to the side and rolled off. The white man scrambled. Enraged at his weakness, Megedagik reached out and seized the struggling man. He beat him with his fists. One punch after another. Ill-advised, foolish. His knuckles would be bloody and bruised by the end of it, but Megedagik did not care. As the man began to gurgle in his own blood, he flipped him onto his chest, seized his throat, and dragged his blade across his scalp. The initial inscisions. Front and sides. Then to two to connect. A sawing motion as you yanked it clean. The man gurgled, but he was past dead. No hope for him now. He made the final cut at the end, relieving him of his scalp, and stalked on, leaving the man to drown in his own blood.

Kesegowase was already upon the other. This William.

_William._

He could hear her say it. So sad, softly. He was surprised at how profoundly he missed her presence.

"Wait!" Megedagik called. Kesegowase froze. He had his hatchet held high. He turned to look at his brother. He looked down at the man. He was crying. He had his hands up. He was begging. Words Megedagik did not know, but he was begging.

"Hassun?" his brother asked, using his personal name softly. Megedagik stopped to stand over him. He held the other's scalp in his hand. He hesitated. He could not spare him. One William was not the other, and it would no nothing for the Maskaanna, no matter how badly he wished to go back and save the small child.

"I will do it," Megedagik said softly. He handed his brother the scalp. Wet. Dripping.

He raised his hatchet and sunk it deeply into his face.

* * *

Edward awoke in the middle of the night. It was cold for the year. He shivered. Eyes swollen, nose broken. The pain was not so great. He still had drink in him. Still, he stumbled back to the smoldering embers of his camp. He reached up to touch his burning scalp. He found it missing. He moaned low, dropped to his knees, and downed the flagon of rum.

"Savages," he breathed out. Some rum dribble down his chin. "Savages."

He stood and looked up. He examined the stars.

"Captain… Will – William… savages."

He drank some more rum and slug it over his shoulder. He looked back at the stars. He oriented himself and stumbled on. He walked slowly. He focused on one step at a time. One step. Another step.  _Savages. Vile, cruel, savages._

_Animals._

Absolute animals. John Melbourne was right. Every single one of them needed to die. Man, woman, and child.

He stumbled onward. His scalp began to ache. He took another swig. He had trouble seeing. His eyes burned. Blood was in his eyes. The air was cold. His limbs were weak. He felt light headed, sick to his stomach.

He continued on. The sun came up. The sky turned pink. Almost red. Orange. No red. The color of blood. He stumbled onward. His throat hurt. His chest burned. Good god, he was in pain. He sucked the rum clean. Gone now.

He began to feel ill. His throat hurt. His stomach turned. He needed to vomit but there was little left. He heaved. He moved onward.

Blessedly, the fort came into view. He stumbled forward. He heard shouting from the tops. Threats to fire, but he could not stop. He continued onward. He fell hard. He tried to get himself up. He managed to get onto his hands and knees and crawl forward a few more paces and collapsed.

He head feet pounding against the ground. More savages come to kill him. His mouth tasted like blood. He tried to open his eyes but could not. He moaned. A hand touched his scalp. It was still missing. He moaned. Suddenly the feet grew louder, then quiet. They were all standing around him.

"Who is it?"

"Bloody hell. It's Clarke."

"Clark Kenningston?"

"Edward Clarke."

"Savages," Edward moaned.

"What, Eddie?"

"Edd, Edd, where're the others? Captain Bailey?"

"Don't make him talk, Jesus Christ."

"Savages," he moaned again."

"Scalped. Jesus. He's been scalped."

"Shut it, Calvin. Get him up."

"Come on, now Eddie, We got you. We got you…. Jesus… his face."

"Savages."

"Don't try and speak, Edward."

"Savages," he breathed. "Savages…."

"Eddie… don't speak. Don't speak…"

"Savages…"

"Hush Edward."

"Savages…" he breathed. His eyes grew heavy. He fell into darkness. His last thought was how badly he wanted a flagon of rum.

* * *

Alice sat by Sarah. She had a smile on her face. Ahanu was skinning a deer he had caught just an hour before. Sarah and Alice were speaking to each other in the savage tongue. It was a conversation between them both, but Ahanu would jump in to make corrections and clarify a word. Neither minded. As the days progressed, and Alice was free to spend more time with her friend, as the less Aiyana saw her, the happier the beautiful Indian woman was, her knowledge of the language was improving exponentially. Often times, she considered how surprise Megedagik would be when he returned. He would not smile. He would grunt and give a nod. Alice was looking forward to it.

She felt in a bit higher spirits. Spending time with Sarah helped. The nausea had stopped.  _Because I won't eat fish anymore,_ Sarah explained. Ahanu and Alice shared only one glance that made it clear to her that he knew it was not fish. She drank slightly less. Mostly because she was terrified of running out of wine. She felt less tired, less depressed.

Ahanu took them on a long walk through the forest a few days ago. They were gone most of the day. They stopped at a little river and swam. It had been relaxing. Calming. But when she returned, she could think of little else but another cup of wine. She sat with one now, but sipped at it slowly.

"Ahanu?" Alice asked. He turned with a smile and lifted eyebrows before looking back at his work. "Why do you live outside the walls?"

He did not answer right away. He examined the deer he had hung upside down in his workshop.

"It is quiet," he answered. "Peaceful."

"It is," Alice agreed. She had no reason to disbelieve him. She leaned back against the log and furs she had laid out. She closed her eyes. "It will be cold soon."

"Month or two more," Ahanu disagreed. Alice looked up at the sky. She would need to leave soon. Past few days, Aiyana told her to come back early. Megedagik would be home soon, and neither wanted him to know the frequency in which she left the walls. Alice was never sure if she was relieved or disappointed when she returned and found he was not there.

She waited an hour or so more and then got to her feet. She cleaned up her spot, placing the fur back carefully in their hut, and readied to leave.

"Should I walk back with you?" Ahanu asked. Sometimes, when he or she felt uneasy, he would escort her back to the walls. Today, Alice wished to be alone a bit longer and she shook her head.

"I will be safe on my own."

"Right back to the walls," Ahanu cautioned. "If something happened to you, Megedagik would have me skinned alive."

"Right back to the walls," Alice lied. She embraced Sarah, promised to return tomorrow, and parted ways.

She walked down to the river. It was quiet this time of day. A few fishing boats remained out in the water. A couple of children lingered to splash around beneath the hot sun, but most had retreated for the day. She settled down by the shore and pulled up her dress. She sank her feet into the water. It was moving rather quickly. It was cool. Refreshing.

She took the time to think of her poor dead Lawrence. Her murdered child. She remembered her baby girl. She did not cry. She smiled sadly, eyes tired, and looked out at the river.

"Forgive me, Lawrence," she whispered. A breeze came wafting in. It brought the smell of the sea. It was cool. Calming. She got to her feet and walked back slowly. She did not wish to sit with Aiyana too long. They almost never spoke. If they did, it was curt and only out of necessity. Chilaili was a peace keeper, but she could only do so much to make it bearable.

She wondered off to where the men came back in their fishing boats. She walked by them occasionally. They rarely spoke to her. Usually it was a kind nod of the head. People knew who she was. She was unsure what made her so special, but many had a kind of reverence for her that puzzled her.

She walked along and found a few men coming to shore. She gave a tired smile at them. A man she did not know stood abruptly. His shoulders tensed, his face turned hard. She felt her stomach turn. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her arms erupted with goosebumps. She was suddenly hyper aware of everything. Her ears buzzed.

From behind him stepped a half-naked man, body turned darker from the sun. Body lined with corded muscle, arms strong, he stood tall. His hands clenched, veins bulged beneath his skin. His neck flexed, lips pressed parted, jaw jutted outward. His nostrils flared, a gush of air rushing out in a short, violent gust.

And the look in his one, hate filled eye pinned her to her place. The other eyelid, sown shut, gave him frightful, lopsided appearance. She felt dizzy, ill, numb. She heard the sound of a shattering skull. The little sheet soaked red. She curled her hands inward, hiding her ruined hands from view.

A hand, the hand that had held the club that murdered her boy, went for the small, jagged blade at his side. His companion reached out. He seized his friend's wrist and held him slow. Both had their eyes on her as the group of young men came into view, carrying a large canoe down to the shore. They paused abruptly, looking between the two savages and Alice.

"Maskaanna," one of the young men said. They knew her, but she did not know them. She stared at the one-eyed man. "Maskaanna, go on inside the walls now."

She did not move. She could not move her legs. She felt numb. One of the young men approached and touched her arm gently. She jumped and looked away.

"Go back inside the walls," he said again, gently. She nodded and turned. "Nayati. Walk with her."

She was aware of the man following her. He kept his distance. He only touched her or spoke to her once as she fell. He helped her up, asked if she was alright. She nodded and pressed on.

He left her at the village walls upon her request. He hesitated, watching her go, before returning to his friends.

Her face was pale as she walked. Legs so numb, she was unsure how she could walk.

She paused when she caught sight of Megedagik. He was seated at the fire by Aiyana. He smiled at her. Said something. His beautiful young wife reached up and took his face in her hands. She placed a kiss to his mouth. Alice felt a violent rage swell up inside of her. He was the reason her son was dead. If he had just let her kill him. Her boy would be alive.

She continued on toward him, ready to unleash her fury. She wanted to hurt him. His him as hard as she could. Rail against him. She marched toward him. Blood was beginning to return to her face. He knew he was here and he did nothing to warn her. Nothing to tell her seeing that man again might be a possibility.

She was trembling as approached them. Aiyana looked over first. The smile slowly slipped from her lips. Her brow creased with concern.

He turned his head next. He sat proudly. His shoulders were broad. His face neutral. Her lower lip trembled and she did not break stride. It was not a change she understood, nor one she was consciously aware of, but as he slowly, in a steady, fluid motion, got up onto his feet, he ceased to be the man she blamed. She saw that horrible man raise the hammer, saw it come down her baby's skull. She was shaken to the core, and the man before her was a strong, protective presence.

_He would have let William live._

She continued to walk until she was pressed against him. Her face was pressed to her hands, curled inward, finding refuge against his chest. His arms closed around her. He held her warmly, securing her tightly to his chest. Her hands turned outward and she gripped the half-shirt of dark buckskin he wore over his hardened torso. She clung onto it, using it to help hold her up. His arms moved, one pressed to her upper back, the other to her lower back. He held her close, held her up, and did not say a word.

With ease, in a single motion, he lowered his arm and hooked it beneath her knees. He carried her as though she weighed nothing. Stepping into the hut and away from prying eyes. He lowered them down to the furs.

"Were you hurt?" he asked calmly, but she knew much went on beneath the surface.

"I saw him," she wept. His arms tightened. One hand covered her face, holding it to his chest. He held her there as she wept. She found great comfort in this savage's strong embrace.

Aiyana stood in the doorway a short time, observed the scene and turned to walk away. It was with grim acceptance that she realized he wouldn't be coming after her.

* * *

Lawrence was among the men in the fort that watched the bodies brought it. Edward was recovering. He had never seen someone survive a scalping before, but then again, most were already dead by the time the blade touched their scalp. It was horrific. Utterly brutal. It was a true beast that had done this. Something not entirely human. He only prayed that reinforcements would come before summer's end. That they might have a chance to survive the coming winter.

"Mr. Dansby," a young soldier said softly. He paused before Lawrence. Another body was carried up and Lawrence carefully pulled back the sheet. A sad smile came to his face. He had suffered such great loss, even the loss of a dear friend did little to move him now. Poor, poor, Captain Bailey. Freckled faced, ginger hair, calm, kind, respected, competent. Dead. As he felt the water begin to fill his eyes and he moved the sheet back up and waved them along. The soldiers fell in line, leaving the haggard old colonist be.

Lawrence sat down by the edge of the gate. The armory stood nearby, stocked to the teeth with weapons, guarded by three men now. Extra men on the walls. For the first time since their arrival, the soldiers were more frightened of a savage attack than the Spanish.

Surrounding the fort the trees had been cut down upon it's erection. Savages were deadly up close. Hand to hand, the English had little chance of defeating them in battle. Running across a field into cannon and gun fire, it was unlikely the savages would ever succeed at a full force attack. They had attempted a siege in the past, one Lawrence was still in English for, and the English almost starved, being unable to go out to their outside crops, but for one reason or the other, they retreated to their hovels. Another reason for the savages' deceit and barbarity across their budding colony. But now, with so few left alive, the crops burned and their fighting force depleted, tensions were high within the fort.

Men and women were sleeping on the church floor. Wall to wall at morning service, the soldiers squashed inside with them. Those that weren't left to guard the walls and armory anyway. Private homes within the fort were full to the brim. Men, women and children crammed into lofts, store houses, anywhere they could fit. Even the governor had opened his mighty home to the refugees. But the fort was not meant for living. It was military, and the few family that did live inside were ill prepared for so many new comers. Food was low, rations were miniscule, and sprits were down. No one was even allowed to venture out and search for the missing anymore. The bodies that were not found, not buried or burned, would be left to rot. No Christian burial for them.

A shudder coursed through him and he hunched forward. Elbows on knees, hands to his hair. The thought of his wife and child, laying out there to rot. And the weather would be cold soon.

"Forgive me, Alice," he begged softly. His eyes burned. More tears, tears he did not think he had.

He had tried to get home when the attack began. The savage had turned on him, used the farm tool he taught him to use to end his life. The blow was glancing but Lawrence hit the ground hard. It was his head hitting the rock that had caused the loss in consciousness. When he awoke, he immediately began to stumble home.

He had wondered through the woods, stumbled with wide eyes and a pounding heart. When he returned home he found Edmund Donavon with his skull caved in, wife and son gone. He had scrambled into the woods, crying out for them, careless to the danger. But he was not a tracker, he did not know what to do, and an hour later he fell to the forest floor to weep. He had arrived at the fort a few hours later, mumbling numbly, eyes wide, lips parted.

He had no ill-conceived notion of revenge. He was not a soldier, though he would do his part when the time came. He could fight, he would kill, but in hand to hand combat, against these trained savages, he would lose every time.

"Mr. Dansby!"

Lawrence looked up. John Elliot was walking toward him.

"Captain," he greeted. He got to his feet.

"They found no additional bodies. Clarke said that much," the old captain informed him. Lawrence nodded. Sometimes he did not know if he wanted them found. He imagined them out there somewhere, two skeletons entwined together, skulls bashed in violently.

"Then there is hope," Lawrence replied. He turned to walk away.

"Lawrence, you need to start accepting she and that boy may never come home," he called, not unkindly. Captain Elliot was a kind man, gruff, weathered, a bit portly, but he was rapidly losing his belly. If supplies did not come from England soon, and the small-beer ran out, they'd all be at the mercy of the swamp water that surrounded them.

"Over twenty women unaccounted for," Lawrence called back. "And my wife is a beautiful woman."

Sometimes he felt guilty. If she lived, who knew what horrors might become her, yet he prayed it was the case. He only wanted her home safe.

He went into the quartermaster's home where he had taken up residence. It was cramped all the same, but better than the church. He sat down at the desk. It was where Betsy wrote out most of her husband's letters. He took some of her stationary. They were kind people. They would bear the expense.

He jotted down a letter as best he could. Someone would be able to read it to Alice's parents. It was a letter of hope and love. Alice was safe. Their children were thriving. News of a savage attack should be of no concern to them. It was the story as he wished it had played out. Something to ease their worry.

_I have never loved another as I love your daughter,_

_In the coming months, we beg you for your prayers._

_Providence will provide._

_-Lawrents_

_1 August, 1622_

He stared at the letter. His heart broke anew. He lowered his head and wept. Sometimes, the pain was too great.

"Providence will provide," he reminded himself as he folded up the letter. He put it in the stack of letters to return to England. He could only pray. In about six months' time, it would reach its destination.

_End Part One_


	22. XXII

_**Part 2:** _ _September 1_ _st_ _, 1622 – May 31_ _st_ _, 1623_

_**September 31** _ _**st** _ _**, 1622** _

Captain Sir Roland Graves arrived in the New World with a single purpose; destroy the threat, secure the colony, return home to title.

He was a tall, handsome man. Shining blue eyes, thick, wavy main of chestnut hair. He had a smattering of facial hair surrounding a well-groomed goatee, mustache trimmed, beard pointed.

It was clear he was a man of means, he made it a point to appear as such, but no one would snicker at the sight of him. The lace collar that fell around his breastplate was the single piece of grandeur on his towering frame. Even the breastplate, put on to make a statement as they arrived at the shore, was well crafted but simple. His clothing was well made but practical.

Watching the lean figure step out onto the gangplank filled onlookers with a sense of hope and security that they had not possessed since the savage attack that had taken so much they loved away from them.

He put a smile on his face. It felt wooden and hollow, but the women wept with happiness and the men lined up to shake his hand. He saw the desperation in their eyes, the pain and sadness, and the incredible hope they had in him. It was overwhelming but the young man did not let it take hold. He pushed it down hard within him and focused on each person he passed. He hoped the smile did not look as painful as it felt on his face.

The governor had wished to meet him first to welcome him to the colony, despite his fear that this new captain was coming to the colony with written instruction from the Virginia Company that he was to be removed from office. But the throngs of hopeful survivors had pushed to the front and the Governor was left to wait impatiently behind the crowed.

"Sir Francis," Roland greeted with another wooden smile. Governor Wyatt felt a wave of relief course through him. The two did not know each other well, but had met once at court, both sent by the Company to impress upon James the importance of their struggling enterprise. The two men had gotten on well and at the very least, if he was to be stripped of command, Sir Roland Graves was a competent man that would do well by his colonists.

"Excuse me," Roland said and removed the large Cavalier hat from the top of his head. He extended a leg, clad in brown leather boots that extended passed his knee. He gave the bow of a gentleman and Sir Francis followed in kind. "Governor Wyatt."

"If you have food and drink on that boat, you may call me Frank if you like," Sir Francis answered, but his brain was buzzing at the title. It appeared, at least for now, his governorship was secure. Roland flashed a genuine smile. It was the first real smile since he boarded the boat in London.

"I have that and more, my friend," he answered. Indeed, Francis looked up to see sailors carrying barrels and crates down the gangplank. Sir Francis' lips twitched and fell.

"Forgive me, Captain, but in my letter, I urged the need for food and drink. What good are munitions if no one lasts the winter?"

Sir Roland turned to look at the ship.

"They were not far behind…." He muttered and stepped to the side. The crowed made way for him. From his pack, he retrieved a spyglass. He extended an arm and closed an eye, scanning the horizon. "Ah, there. Ten hogs, twenty chickens, two goats and enough grain to see them through the winter." He turned and clasped two hands on Sir Francis' shoulders, pinning him with his intense blue gaze, full of ambition and fervor. "And come spring, we will find these savages, and we'll send these murdering heathens to their eternal fire."

The murmur that went up through the crowed filled Sir Francis with a renewed confidence and Sir Roland with a renewed desire for blood.

The first thing the new Captain did was go to Edward Clarke's bedside. Lawrence watched with reserved pleasure as he walked beside the governor, stern and calm. Clarke was housed in the Governor's home. There was no hospital at the fort and it was rather amazing the man had survived at all, and after so long, it appeared he would pull though.

"Two more ships coming," George Hicks told him. "Hogs and chickens."

"Good," Lawrence said. He leaned against the storehouse wall. George Hicks was a good man. He signed on with the company at nineteen and had been in the two world for ten years. He was the resident Indian Killer. He had fifteen scalps hanging above in bunk at the barracks. His nails were caked with dirt as he rolled the little bit of tobacco in his fingers.

"Unloading the guns and powder now. Enough to train with," he continued. He slapped Lawrence on the shoulder. "Ready to learn how to kill injuns?"

"Does this mean we will go back out. More patrols?"

"Hell if I know," Hicks answered. "I wouldn't think. Not until spring."

Lawrence turned his gaze to the floor.

"If she's out there, we'll get her," Hicks promised. "And if not, we'll make 'em pay."

He put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"I'll be up at the East bulwark," Hicks told him. He departed with a pat on his shoulder. Lawrence remained. He stepped forward as the governor and new captain walked passed.

"Captain, sir?" he called with a wave of the hand. He and the Governor's conversation ended and they gave him their surprised attention. "Governor, sir. Excuse the interruption, but, but will we go out there now? Can we go out looking?"

"You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You are?" the captain asked kindly. His smile was tight, but appeared genuine.

"Lawrence Dansby. My wife and boy, they're out there still."

"Captain Graves, a pleasure," he greeted politely. After the obligatory meeting, he moved passed the pleasantries. Governor Wyatt seemed rather annoyed he had stopped to speak to the farmer. "Until I have a clearer understanding of the surrounding land, the situation, our stores, I cannot give you an answer either way. Surely, you understand."

"Yes, Captain, of course, but my wife – she – my boy –"

"The company is aware captives were taken and have sent instructions with me to have word sent to the savages requesting their safe return –"

"Requesting! – "

" –  _but_ – " the Captain said, placing his hands on both of Lawrence's shoulder, "If our requests are refused, we will do everything in our power to bring them home. I promise, meetings will be held. Allow me to become acquainted with the situation." He shook Lawrence slightly. His blue eyes were intense. It calmed Lawrence some and he nodded reluctantly.

"My wife and boy are out there," he repeated softly, hoping to impress upon him the importance. The Captain's eyes softened and he nodded.

"I know," he answered.

"No, you don't," Lawrence snapped. "You don't know. I just told you. My wife and my little boy –"

"Master Dansby –" the Governor began.

"No, no, Sir Francis. Mister Dansby, sir, I promise you, if they are out there, will bring them home. Now please, so that I might help you, let me get to work." He put hands on Lawrence's shoulders and squeezed firmly. It was the closest he had ever gotten to a nobleman. Tears swelled in Lawrence's eyes.

"They're my whole life, Sir –"

"Go to the armory. Speak to Captain James Greaves. Tell him I sent you. He'll find a good post for you. Stay informed."

"Thank you, Captain."

The new captain slapped his shoulder.

"A town meeting, tonight or tomorrow morning. Spread the word."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Lawrence watched them walk into the Governor's mansion before he turned and marched toward the armory. There was a growing throng of people. Mostly men, but a few woman were scattered in. Everyone was chattering anxiously. Lawrence shoved through the crowed until he got to the front. The Captain watched him approach, a bearded, scarred face, leathery skin, dark eyes, a snub nose.

"Give me a gun," he said. The Captain starred at him. Dark, penetrating eyes. He had a deep, white scar over his upper lip. The hair did not grow there. He had another gash on upper eyebrow. Slowly, his chapped, scarred lips curved upward. He grabbed one of the guns already unloaded from the supply ships. He threw the gun over. Lawrence caught it, the gun clicking loudly in his hands. It was heavy. Military grade. Not the second-rate hunting muskets they'd been relying on since the attack. He felt the weight of it in his hands. It felt good. The Captain's eyes scanned the crowed, brighter, happier, lips cured upward.

"Anyone else?"

Hands rose in the crowed, a loud murmur rippled through the haggard looking men.

* * *

Alice walked back to the little fire pit and knelt down to stir the beans. It was still warm during the days, but the nights were getting cold. She was not worried about the approaching winter. There was more than enough food in the store houses and she lived with a fine hunter. Food, warmth, and shelter, would not be a problem. What preoccupied her thoughts now was having the meal ready upon Megedagik's return.

He had left a month earlier for a village a few hours away. He had told her he would be staying there, but when he returned, he would not be alone. Aiyana went with him. She was furious with him after he spent the night holding Alice in his arms to bring her comfort. The next day, when Aiyana returned to find them both asleep, fully clothed, but wrapped warmly in each other's arms, she had flown into a rage. Alice could not say she blamed her, but it made her no more sympathetic to her cause.

Aiyana threatened to leave if Alice was not sent to live in another household, Kesegowase would not refuse such a pretty, young wife. Megedagik promised emphatically that there was not now, was never, and never would be a relationship with his young white captor. Two days after that promise, they went to visit Megedagik's children and other family in a nearby village. Alice found she missed his presence. She missed the intimacy of another. It did not need to be Megedagik, but he had done well to make her forget some of her pain, at least for a short while.

Chilaili had left the lodge. She was still around often. She would sit by the fire and work with Alice and Sarah when she ventured back within the city walls. Often times, when Sarah was busy, Alice would sit with Chilaili and her friends around the fire of her new husband. He was young, but prominent in the village. She had told Megedagik one night over dinner. The older man gave a nod, congratulated Chilaili, and told her she my stay as long as she need. Neither seemed at all heartbroken their union had been so easily broken, and they both remained cordial to one another.

Alice was not sure when they would return, but she thought that they might be coming within the next few days. The weather was beginning to turn. It would be wise to return home soon. At least, she hoped they would return soon.

She stirred the beans again. If they did not come, she could bring the left-over food to Sarah and Hausis, Hausis was a kind old woman she had eaten a few meals with in the past month or so. Sarah was beginning to show. Alice wished to help her friend through her first pregnancy as best she could.

Alice was just about to prepare a bowl for Hausis when she heard her name called out, followed by the maniacal little giggle of a delighted little boy.

"Alice! Alice!"

A smile spread across her face. She got up to her feet and wiped her hands on her dress. The little boy got closer and closer, stumbling toward her rapidly. As he got closer she spread her arms and he slammed into her. His arms wrapped around her neck and he squeezed tightly. She had been frightened he would not remember her, that he would be shy. That fear rapidly evaporated. She spun him around with a joyous little laugh. She put him down just in time to intercept Mansi. She kissed Mansi's cheek, kissed the top of Ahote's head, kissed Mansi again. The children giggled. Mansi was already touching her hair, asking if she could braid it. Ahote was squirming out of her hold, pulling out a little club to show her. They talked over each other, excitedly telling her everything she had missed.

"Slow down, slow down," she smiled. She smoothed out Ahote's thick head of growing hair. She pinched the end of Mansi's braid. "Are we hungry?"

They both nodded rapidly. They sat down around the fire, speaking rapidly to one another. Alice got back to her feet and smoothed out her dress. Megedagik was alone as he walked toward her. Grim faced and stony eyed. She was unsure how to greet him, yet the sight of him sent a flutter through her chest and her eyes burned slightly. She rang her hands together.

"Hello," she greeted. He stopped before her. "Is… Aiyana back?"

"She went to greet her sister," he said. "She will return this evening."

She nodded and bent down at the fire. She fed the children first, she handed Megedagik a packed pipe. He set about smoking it slowly. He accepted her food with a grunt.

Ahote showed her his club. Megedagik had made it with him. He had to build up his arm strength. Mansi gave Alice a necklace. It was made of pretty pink sea shells. She wore a matching one.

"I actually, made something for you," she said to Megedagik after she was presented with her gifts and the children had busied themselves with filling their mouths with the steaming beans. He looked at her. His face was blank, but far from hostile. Surprise flickered in his gaze. "Let me show you."

She got up to her feet and went inside. She picked up the large pelt.

"It was the wolf pelt you brought back," she reminded him. "And the buck you brought back before you left."

She sat down beside him and placed it into his lap rather unceremoniously. It was fear of embarrassment and not indifference.

"Ahanu helped me, and Maka and Chilaili. But I did the sewing and the cutting."

He lowered his pipe to the ground and picked up the shirt she had made. It was too warm for him now, but when he went into the cold forest at the heart of winter, it would serve him well. If he wore it.

"This is well made," he said. He examined it. "Warm."

She smiled proudly.

"Thank you, Alice," he said.

"I will put it inside," she said and reached for it. He allowed her to collect it from his lap and return inside. She sat down between the children. She put an arm around both and pulled them closer, placing a kiss to their temples. She removed her arms and ladled herself out a bowl. She smiled, amazed at how much happiness seeing them again brought her.

Her eyes moved up to look at Megedagik. He was looking at her, sucking slowly on his pipe. She offered a small smile. He only stared back grimly before moving his gaze to examine the village.

"Alice," Ahote said with a mouth full of beans.

"Hush. Finish what is in your mouth. Then speak," she scolded. He chewed rapidly. Mansi rushed to beat him, and opened her mouth before her little brother had the chance.

"I caught a fish yesterday," Mansi told her. "It was this big."

"Really?" Alice asked. "That big?"

"Yes! Right papa?"

"It was a large fish," he fish he agreed.

"Ahote didn't catch one."

"I don't like fishing!" he yelled, mouth still full of beans.

"Ahote –" both Megedagik and Alice scolded at once, but Alice told him to chew with his lips together, an Megedagik told him he was not to speak to his sister in that manner.

"Sorry, papa," he mumbled first. "Sorry, Alice."

Alice patted his hair but said nothing.

"Will you collect shells with me?" Mansi asked.

"There are no shells on the river, child," Megedagik told her. "We are walking to the river after we eat. I promised them they could swim. You will join us."

"I would love to," she answered, though it was clear her desire was not a concern. The children chattered on happily as they ate. A lot had happened since they had returned to their village. Both vied for her attention.

When it was time to go for their walk, Mansi held her hand. Ahote was to be a warrior, he did not hold hands, he told her severely. He did make sure to run back and check in from time to time.

Mansi left her as they neared the river. She and her brother went down to the shore and stripped down. The night would be cold, but the evening was warm, and the water refreshing. Alice walked them a few feet from the bank of the river with a smile on her face, arms crossed over her chest. Megedagik stood a few feet away.

"I missed them," she spoke. They were giggling at each other, splashing happily in the water. "They will stay a while?"

"The winter," he answered. "They missed you."

"The whole of winter?"

He paused a moment before nodding. He stared out at the other side of the river.

"You were treated well while I was gone?" he asked. He looked back at her.

"I was," she answered. "Chilaili kept me company. I only ever left the city walls with Ahanu or Kesegowase."

He said nothing in response. He was distant. Curt. His mind seemed elsewhere. He looked back to the river.

"I am to stay in the lodge?" she asked. She was examining her hands. She could feel his eyes on her. "I wish to remain, if my wish is to be a consideration."

"You will go nowhere," he answered.

She checked on the children. She called for Mansi to bring Ahote in. He was out too far, even with the gentle current.

"Ahote, not so far," she called.

"The boy is a strong swimmer. He's been swimming since before he could walk."

"Ahote, closer people," she called anyway. He obeyed.

"They share a mother?" she asked. They looked very much alike, but she could see only their father in their sweet little faces.

"They do."

"Where is she?" she asked.

"Dead," he responded. More silence. "Child birth."

"I am sorry," she said.

"I miss her deeply."

"I miss Lawrence," she mused softly. The sun was getting low. The temperature would be dropping soon. The children would need to be dried before that happened.

"I am sure he died bravely," Megedagik comforted. She snorted out a laugh. Ahote was giggling madly as he chased his sister back out into the deeply, flowing current. She watched him closely, but did not force him to come back in this time. "My people were slaughtered," he told her. He stopped beside her, arms crossed over his chest and he watched his children. "Man, woman, and child. Susquehannock. That is what they call us. I remember a different name. I was only just a man. Sixteen summers, fifteen. My father made sure I got my brothers out alive. I did and when I returned, there was nothing left of the village but ash and bones. I tried to find our friends. I went East, but I got lost. Terribly lost. We walked for months in the four, just the five of us. I often still wish I had stayed to fight, and die, with my people."

"Foolishness," she answered. She turned to looked at him. "What good could you do dead?"

She looked back at the children.

"Your son would be alive."

She watched Ahote's head bob up and down in the water. She watched Mansi pick him up by the hips and carry her exhausted brother back to where his feet could touch the river's sandy bottom.

"One cannot live a life of what-ifs."

It was his turn to remain silent. Ahote went to swim back out to meet his sister.

"Ahote," Megedagik called. He shook his head. The boy obeyed, but splashed dejectedly down the bank until his sister came in to play with him.

"Have you lost a child?" she asked.

"I have not," he answered.

"There is nothing more painful," she told him.

"Have you seen him?"

"Not since that day," she answered.

A pregnant pause.

"My nails," she mumbled. She examined them. She angled her body to face him. He brought up one hand and gently caught her fingers. His skin was warm; his calloused fingers closed around hers. The pad of his thumb caressed the top of her nails.

"They are still bumpy," she muttered. "But –"

"They are beautiful," he said. "You have little hands."

"A lady's hands," she whispered in English, remembering Lawrence. Megedagik's hand tightened on hers. He held them both firmly, thumbs stroking her knuckles. Her hands pulsed around his fingers. It felt nice, the touch. She had missed it. She had missed him.

She withdrew her hands and turned back to the river. She took a few steps toward the bank, crossing her arms over her chest. She walked to her right, closer to where the children had drifted. Megedagik stayed where he was, looking down the opposite bank.

The sun began to set and the air was turning cool. Alice called the children in. They made no attempt to dress. When Alice instructed them to do so, Megedagik stopped them.

"There is no need," he said. "Go on now."

"Surely, Mansi –"

"She has not flowered," he answered. Alice said nothing. So much these people did still amazed her. She walked back a few feet ahead of Megedagik. The whole while, she felt his gaze on her, but when she chanced to glance back, his eyes were on the ground or some point beyond her.

Aiyana was there when they returned. She was helping herself to the remaining beans still steaming over the hot coals. She glanced up, gave Alice a tight smile, and looked back to her meal. Mansi went to show her a pretty rock she had found, but Aiyana only feigned interest briefly. Mansi hurried back to Alice, who was unable to keep herself from quickly putting the child back into her dress. It was one thing for them to run around naked at the river. Another thing entirely for them to do so inside the village walls.

"My sister is feasting with Powhatan tomorrow," Aiyana said. By the volume of her voice, it was clear she was speaking only to Megedagik.

"Oh?" Megedagik grunted. He plopped down beside her and retrieved his pipe. It was still mostly packed. He lit it calmly and inhaled deeply. Alice poured herself a little cup of wine. The first of the day. Megedagik watched the thick purple liquid fall into the cup. No new berries were coming in. It would be the last of the season.

"Yes. Along with her invitation, she received word that Powhatan wishes to speak with you. As soon as possible."

"For?"

"He did not say."

Megedagik grunted again and got to his feet. He walked off without another word. Ahote rummaged through his little sack until he found a game he wanted to play. He and Mansi sat down beside Alice and the three began to play. Aiyana watched for a few moments, collected her bowl, and went inside.

Alice sang the children to sleep. Megedagik had still not returned, and both children were quite tired from their long journey. Ahote had begun to get fresh. A sharp slap to the cheek and a thorough scolding and he stomped off into the hut to have a temper tantrum. Aiyana left the lodge just moments later and went walking down the trail. Alice let him cry. Mansi braided her hair. Alice brushed through and rebraided hers.

She made their beds close to her, giving Megedagik and Aiyana most of the other side of the lodge. Ahote had ceased and tantrum, and apologized to Alice tearfully as he tucked her into bed.

"Do you think your father would have been pleased to see you act that way?" she asked severely in turn. He shook his head. "No, because that is not how a strong man acts. You want to be a strong man like your papa?" he nodded. "Then no more tantrums."

He sniffled and promised. She smiled softly and brushed his hair from his face. Having no desire to stay outside alone, she nestled down with the children. She told them stories, translated as best she could into the words she knew, and sang them songs in English. Mansi tried to learn one. She was asleep by the time she learned the first verse. Ahote was nestle in the crook of her arm. She gently stroked his forehead. He was fast asleep, breathing slowly and deeply, when Aiyana returned.

"Are they the reason you won't leave?" she asked. Alice almost didn't understand her. She was close to sleep herself. She was merely trying to enjoy the feeling of small soft bodies sleeping close by.

"I'm sorry?" she asked in English. Aiyana seemed to understand the gist.

"Chilaili has left. Took her longer than she promised to find another husband, but she left. And now I have him to myself again and here you are."

"If I had a home to go back to, I assure you I would."

"That was not what I –" Aiyana sighed deeply. "I do not mean to belittle your… circumstances."

"Circumstances," Alice partially laughed, partially whispered.

"There are plenty of places for you to go, with good people who would provide for you."

"I will not marry one of you," she said. She looked down and gently stroked Mansi's cheek with her thumb. The little girl turned into her and buried her face into her side.

"Kesegowase will house you," Aiyana said. She looked at Alice. " _Please._  You will see the children. I have no desire to be mother to them. I just want my home with my husband. The two of us. What he promised me."

Alice looked at her. Genuine pleading shown in her eyes. Alice held her gaze. She felt very little sympathy in her heart for the woman before her. She could feel his hands on hers. The gentle, firm touch. He offered her a sense of security. She was unwilling to lose it. She had earned this much.

"What your husband promised you is not my concern. I will not leave," Alice said. "And for whatever reason, your husband does not wish to part with me. Perhaps, that is something you should discuss with him."

Aiyana's lips pinched together, her eyes hardened.

"Are you sleeping with him?" she asked. Her voice was soft. It hardly made it over the crackling of the fire. Alice stared back.

"No," she finally said. "He hasn't touched me."

Aiyana stared at her. It was clear she wasn't entirely convinced, but she looked back down and spread out her furs. She said nothing else. She laid down and went to sleep. Alice remained awake, staring into the dying flames and running her fingers through Ahote's hair. She moved the blanket from on top of him. His cheeks were flushed and his brow was damp. It was warmer than she thought it would be tonight.

Megedagik ducked his head in some time later. He looked to her first, checked on Aiyana, and then stepped into the lodge. He rearranged the logs so that it was less smoky.

"Your son had a tantrum this evening," she told him. He glanced at Ahote, still snuggled up close to her, but sprawled out above the furs.

"We will correct that while he is here," he murmured.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

"Just a normal meeting," he answered, but she knew it was not true. She did not push.

"Aiyana wants me to leave," she told him. He looked up at her. It became clear he was going to wait for her to speak next. "You will make sure that does not happen."

"You are not leaving," he answered. She leaned down and kissed Ahote's cheek. She crouched back down and laid her head down on her pillow.

"Good night," she whispered. He knocked the logs out and the lodge went dark. There was a long pause. She was almost asleep. Then, very softly, as if he was speaking to himself, she heard his quiet rumble in the darkness.

"Good night, Alice."


	23. XXIII

XXIII

Aiyana was in a rather foul mood as they sat by the river. A thick fur was laid out to make her more comfortable. Lazily, she was chewing on the last of the berries. Her eyes scanned the far off tree line, observed the children with disinterested affection, and sighed deeply. She was ignored by all present, but only Megedagik actually heard her.

He watched the Maskaanna closely, sucking on his pipe contentedly. She was searching in vain for sea shells with Mansi. She walked along the shoreline, skirt held up around her lower thigh, feet in the water just above her ankles. Her hair was braided, draped over a shoulder, kind smile on her face as she scoured the sandy bank.

Ahote was a hundred or so yards down the bank, throwing large rocks and branches into the water.

It was his luck that he would come to possess to beautiful women with fine reputations, neither of whom were willing to be second to another. Troubling to him, he found himself wondering more and more if she would have him if he put Aiyana aside. Looking at her now, he was overcome with more than just a predatorily lust for the lush young body. It was admiration and respect. A surprisingly strong feeling of genuine affection for her person.

His feelings for Aiyana had diminished. That he could no longer deny. His desire faded. He feared it was temporary. A fleeting desire for the new, the exotic.

He'd never been one for a wandering eye. He did not get bored or distracted by a new pretty face. Never once had he ever doubted his love for his poor dead wife.

Parting with Maskaanna had been difficult, the long separation more than a minor annoyance, but it was not until he had returned and caught sight of her that he realized how deeply his attachment had grown.

"Mansi!" she suddenly cried out, face opening with excited surprise. "Mansi, come here."

The little girl came running over, water splashing up around her naked body. Ahote heard the commotion and came bounding over as to not lose out on anything.

"Look, see? See just there?" she asked pointing. The little girl looked. Her eyes widened and she fell to her knees. The little girl squeaked with delight as she retrieved the tiny, pink shell from the water. Ahote fell down beside her.

Mansi let him look at the shell and then showed the Maskaanna. Next, she whirled around.

"Look papa!" She cried and came to kneel by him on the soft grass. "See, I found one."

"Alice found one," he corrected his daughter.

" _We_  found one," the Maskaanna corrected him. He caught her eye and gave a little smile. She looked down to examine her finger nails. Mansi carefully put the shell in his hand and looked up hopefully at the white woman biting her bottom lip, finger pads rubbing the bumps on her nails.

"Can we look for more?" she asked with desperate excitement. Alice looked up, a smile at the ready, eyes twinkling affectionately.

"Of course," she answered. "Let's get to work."

"I want to help! I want to help!" Ahote cried as he chased after the two females. He set about scouring the bank, and though there would be no more shells found that day, he had not seen his children have such fun in a long time.

Mansi loved her shell and both children were exhausted when they all wandered back inside the village walls.

As he watched them all walk in together, he was troubled with terrible visions in his head. He recalled the murder of her little boy, but instead of that pale little head, it was his own son standing there, soft little skull cracked open with the blow of the hammer.

"Ahote," he beckoned as he sat down at the fire. The boy looked to him, thick black hair falling over his eyes "come here."

The little boy obeyed, settling happy in his papa's lap. Alice had his pipe ready before he had to ask. He would not have asked. He had smoked a good deal of the day, more than he would have liked, but he did not have the heart to tell her so.

"I promised my sister I would help prepare a new quilt for my grandmother," Aiyana said, placing an arm around him and touching his cheek. She placed a soft kiss to his mouth. "Will you join me?"

"I promised the children I would stay with them tonight. I was gone much of yesterday."

She nodded in understanding, but she was clearly disappointed. She placed another kiss to his lips. It was soft and tender. It once drove him wild. He found it only pleasant now. What man would not enjoy the touch of a woman's lips to his?

"I will be back shortly," she vowed. "And tonight… we might," another short kiss. "Enjoy each other."

He nodded. She kissed him again. More deeply. His eyes opened as he parted his lips, pressing his tongue to hers. Catching the Maskaanna's gaze sent a jolt through him. Like a shockwave down his limbs, buzzing strangely in his fingertips. She jerked her head away and he let his eyes closed. It was with twisted satisfaction that he realized she had been watching them.

Aiyana pulled away from the kiss first and smiled at him. She ran her hand over the hair at the crown of his head. She gave a last peck to the mouth and got up to leave. He took note the children were indifferent to her departure. The Maskaanna was preparing some green beans for the children. They were Mansi's favorite, but Ahote did not like them. He knew it, and the thought the thought ran through his head just before the boy vocalized his concern.

"You can eat it or you go hungry," she responded with stern gentleness. The boy considered protesting. Indeed he stared at her for a good long while. She stared back. As the time elapsed, she leaned forward, almost daring him to say something. He fell silent and she went back to her preparations.

"How did you occupy yourself in my absence?" he asked her. For a brief moment he did not think she understood. She remained silent, looking from the food, to the bowls, to the cooking pot.

"I told you. I spent much time with Sarah, Chilaili, and Maka."

"Not all time."

"Oh, you mean the lover I took?" she asked. His head jerked upward with enough force that he was embaressed before he registered the sarcasm in her voice. It was her accent, the inability to word things the way she meant that made him believe it was true. She held his gaze, an almost aggressive amusement in her gaze. She looked back at the beans, stirring them slowly.

"Maskaanna," he said once the children had their bowls of steaming vegetables. She looked at him. He raised a hand and tapped the side of his head three times, hard. She looked to his scalp. He could feel the growth. Almost full two day's worth.

"Aiyana will be home soon," she said. He considered the word home. Did she mean house? Or home? He wondered.

"You will do it."

She knew where the oil was. He didn't have to say anything. She stood and went into the lodge. Once again, that warped satisfaction rushed through him as she knelt beside him, the oil jar in her hand.

"Do not cut my scalp."

She had never been taught to shave a scalp. He had seen their men. He had scalped many of them. Thick head of hair, thicker hair on their faces, sometimes long. A seriously odd practice. Just… letting their hair grow. On  _men._

She said nothing and put her hands in the oil. She spoke suddenly, very softly, quietly,  _submissively,_ "this much?"

He looked at her hands. Amazing, how those little hands could do so much damage against a seasoned warrior.  _And would have defeated, if not for you._

"It is perfect," he said. She pushed up from her knees, off of her feet, and gently pressed the oil into his scalp. Her hands were small and cool. No smaller, no cooler, than Aiyana's, yet when he closed it eyes, it seemed infinitely different. She kneaded his scalp. Rubbed it in deeply. Not merely shave the skin. Her fingers continued to work. He enjoyed it for a long while. He ignored the consideration that she was simply afraid of actually pressing the knife to his skin. Even as her hand trembled as she finally reached for the blade, her hands trembled.

He reached out to touch her wrist. He didn't just want to touch her. He wanted to make sure his scalp wasn't sliced open.

"Steady, even, apply pressure, get it close, but not too much. It is a sharp blade."

"If- If I cut you… will you…" she glanced at the children. "Will you whip me again?" she said softly. Another shameful rush of pleasure. Why did this woman make him feel this way? He cursed the Great Spirit.

"Only if I think you mean to scalp me," he said.

"I would never," she mumbled. He believed her. He watched the blade rise in her hand. His heart pounded. Ahote and Mansi settled in front of them and he smiled. His children loved him. She loved his children. She would do nothing to hurt them, and so she would do nothing to hurt him. Somehow, that helped water the affection he had for her in his heart.

"T-tell me if it is too hard," she said. She pressed it to his scalp. She slid it over his skin. He felt the pressure. It was a bit light, but he preferred it too hard. "Harder?" she asked when he voiced his opinion. "This is how I shaved Lawrence."

He felt a violent flair of angry jealously.

"This is how you shave  _me._ " He replied. She put the blade back and he waited for her to press the blade deep into his flesh. Instead, she added a bit more pressure.

"Like this?" she asked.

Once she passed over, he reached up to touch the skin.

"Yes. Now oil."

She rubbed the oil over the fresh skin. She repeated the process. Neither child interrupted. They knew the Maskaannna was fulfilling an important duty. He relished the moments she rubbed the oil into his scalp, and after the final pass of the blade. She continued to rub the oil into his scalp, easing the freshly shaved skin.

His eyes were closed when Aiyana arrived again. He tried to enjoy the last few touches of the pale white hand with the deformed finger nails.

"You could not have waited? I've hardly been gone."

He opened his eyes. Though her voice was calm, he could see the anger in her eyes.

"I thought you would be tired. I hoped to save you time." It was a smooth lie, one he did not feel good about, and one she did not believe.

"Yes. Tired. Very much. I am to stay at my sisters tonight. Will you join me?"

"I told you. I promised the children."

"Yes. The children."

She clearly wished to say more. She shook her head instead and stomped away.

"Will you not go after her?" Maskaanna asked. Her voice was disinterested and she pressed her hands back to his scalp.

"No," he said simply. "My shoulders are stiff."

There was a moment of hesitation, and then her hands dropped to knead at the taught muscles of his shoulders.

"Lawrence was a strong man," she mused. Her hands moved down his arms, back up to his shoulders. "He would come back from the fields so sore. The earth is different than England."

"You loved him," he observed, not for the first time.

"Very much."

"Yet he was chosen for you."

"Love grows. You foster it and work for it."

"You bind yourself for life, to someone you may not ever grow to love," he considered. "I do not understand."

"Marriage is not built on love, but duty and respect." she answered. "But if you are lucky it is attained."

"Odd," he rumbled.

"He was a good father," she continued. "He loved our children very much."

"Child. Children is plural."

"I am aware," she answered curtly. There was some silence before she spoke. "We had a little girl. Jane. She perished this past winter."

"I am sorry."

"Do not be. This death, you had no hand in."

The jab hurt considerably more than he cared to admit. Guilt that the boy had died. Anger that she blamed him for it. Pain that he knew she was right. He opened his eyes to look at his children.

"That was unfair," she muttered after a few minutes. She continued to massage his shoulders. He had to clear his throat before speaking.

"I robbed you of a child. I will forever live with that knowledge," he said. She said nothing. Her hands pressed to the back of his head, at the base of his neck.

"You may stop when you wish," he said after a few more moments. He was disheartened when she removed her hands from him.

She wiped her hands on a rag and put away the oil. He watched her closely. Her face was blank, eyes thoughtful.

"Ahote," she spoke. "Put this inside."

She handed him the oil. The boy obeyed. Mansi was playing with her shell.

Maskaanna remained beside him. She hugged her knees to her chest and stared into the flames.

"What was she like?" she suddenly asked. He said nothing, unsure exactly what he meant. She turned her head to look at him. "Your wife," she clarified.

"Good," he said. "Kind. Strong. My love for her was rivaled only by my admiration. She would have liked you."

She snorted.

"You know my meaning."

"What was her name?"

"Lemana."

"That's pretty," she said softly. "Your family... what were they like?"

It was painful to speak of it. In truth, very few knew the truth of his origins. Even Powhatan, the little brother of the man that welcomed them to the tribe, did not know the whole story. But he looked at her, thought of the pain she had suffered, his culpability in it.

"My father was a good, strong man. He was mighty. He taught me to hunt and fight, what honor was, how to provide for a family. He was stern, but loving. My mother was a sweet woman, older than he, but only just. She had come from a neighboring village. My older brother, I like to think I am the type of man he would have been. I was always in awe of him."

"Do you all share the same mother?"

"We do," he answered. "did... my first people, they rarely took multiple wives. There was no need."

"A need for multiple wives?"

"We are a warrior people Maskaanna. Many men die. Who will provide for them otherwise?"

She lowered her eyes.

"I don't like it," she mumbled lamely.

"Because you are a jealous woman. Like Aiyana."

"If roles were reversed, you would accept a wife with multiple husbands?"

"If that was what she wanted."

"You would be satisfied if Aiyana took a lover?"

"Not satisfied. I would dislike it, but it is her right, and she has."

Alice blinked at him.

"So, I might take a lover, and you would say nothing."

"You are not my wife," he said, more bite in his voice than he would have liked. Ahote glanced over, eyes slightly wide, and then went back to the digging of his hole. "You are my prisoner."

Alice reached out and gently nudged a log over.

He stared at her, looked over the curve of her nose, the plumpness of her lips. He made his decision then, but did not voice his intent. He called his son over, asked him if he wanted to widdle. The boy nodded excitedly. As he began to teach the boy to carve, Mansi came over to braid Maskaanna's hair. Two braids, either side of the head. The hair style suited her.

Aiyana did not return, and as he entered the lodge with his the Maskaanna and his two children, he found himself rejoicing in the fact.

* * *

Alice could not help but smile as she watched Megedagik tell his story. She lay back in her spot, snuggled up against the furs with the two children. Megedagik sat before them, half his face bathed in firelight, telling the children an old folk story. She understood most of it, and found herself enjoying the sentiment. He was frightful, then soft, terrible, and then kind. He had the children giggling, his face was expressive. Even without a drop of wine, for those few hours, Alice found herself quite at peace. Almost happy.

She put the children to bed. They had an eventful day. They fell asleep almost instantly. Alice remained awake. She had a tiny smile on her face, staring into the flames, thinking of the day. She would have to speak to Megedagik, plead with him to let the children stay. Her life was fuller with them in it. She touched her belly, thinking of the child she might have had. She was once again struck with the sting of regret and she looked toward the wine jug. She stared at it longingly, but then turned to look back into the flames. It was what was best. She had made the right decision.

"Maskaanna," he rumbled from the other side of the fire. He drew her gaze. "Come sit by me."

Her heart rate accelerated but she did not hesitate long. She crawled around the side of the fire, careful not to disturb the children. She stopped beside him, pressing her hands together in her lap anxiously. She looked at him, but struggled to meet his eye. She looked to the piercing in his nose, the necklaces around his neck, the dry skin of his lips.

She was surprised when the hand that he raised did not close around the back of her neck, or nudge her back to the floor. Instead, warm, calloused knuckles trailed down her cheek. He took his hand and gently smoothed out her hair. He pinched the end of one of her braids.

When his lips touched her skin, her eyes closed and her lips parted. He left scorching kisses in his wake, the side of her mouth, cheek, chin, neck.

"A-Aiyana," she breathed. He breathed in deeply against her neck. She felt his tongue, his lips closed around the skin. He hushed her. His hand went into her hair, holding her head firmly, and he tilted her head to the side and pressed his mouth back to hers. It was a deep kiss, not all that hard.

It was passionate. Not the kind of kiss driven purely by lust. She could feel it deep within her. She returned the kiss, pressing her face closer to his. He moved his lips, she felt his teeth on her lower lip, gently nibbling. Her hand settled on his bicep. It was large, hot, and tight beneath her hand. She felt it flex as their tongues touched.

His hand touched her calf. He stroked the skin with his thumb, bringing his hand upward. It settled on her inner thigh. She pressed her legs together, squeezing around his hand. His finger pressed into the flesh of her thighs. He kissed her harder. The kiss ended and he gently pushed her onto her back.

Those broad shoulders heaved as he looked down at her. His eyes were intense and he stared into her eyes. He settled over her, simply watching.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered. His hands slipped beneath her dress and pushed it upward. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. Her mouth was dry. He parted her legs and pulled her closer. She could feel him against her as he settled against her. "If I saw you like this, I wouldn't have taken you," he murmured. Slowly, he entered her. It was torture, but she'd never felt such bliss. She bit her bottom lip to keep her moan from waking the children. "If I knew…"

He smothered his own grown as he buried himself inside of her. He hung his head a moment. He withdrew his hips and gazed up to the ceiling. She reached up, threading her fingers together behind his neck. Her fingers went up the back of his head and then back down to his neck. He continued to thrust his hips. It was slow and steady. His head was hung. Close to hers, but he did not try to kiss her. A breathy shudder escaped her shortly before he climaxed within her.

Both were breathing heavy. His body was slick with sweat. Ahote did not like the dark. The fire was burning brightly. Her hands remained at the back of his neck. Her feet resting on his calves.

He looked up at her. His eyes moved over her face. One of his hands gently stroked at the sweaty hair stuck to her forehead.

"When we are alone…" he said softly, hoarsely. "You may call Hassun."

She touched his mouth with her finger tips.

"Do you love her?" she asked. She just needed to know. Looking at him now, she felt a tug in her chest. An uncomfortable tickle.

"I did," he answered. She looked up into his eyes. "To put aside a wife… for a white woman. It would be a great shame to her."

"I will not be your wife," she told him. He looked down at her. His lips twitched and he touched her cheek.

"It would be a great honor," he informed her. "If I decided to make you my wife. But I have no need for a wife that cannot love me."

"Then you have no need for me," she whispered. He ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. His touch was gentle. Gingerly, with that hard, calloused pad of his finger, he stroked the lip. He lowered his head and pressed a chaste kiss to her mouth. Her lips tingled and her nails pressed into the burning skin at the back of his neck. She breathed in deeply through her nose. He was warm, smelled like earth and smoke.

The kiss ended too soon. She blinked up at him. He looked at her a few moments longer.

"Good night, Alice," he whispered. He rolled away from her. She pulled down her dress. She moved over to the water basin to clean herself. She washed slowly, eyes glazing over as she stared into the flames.

"Ha….Hassun?" she asked. He looked over at her. He was settling down for sleep. His gaze was gentle as he gave a nod to confirm she had spoken correctly.

"Good night, Hassun," she told him.

"Good night," he repeated. She placed the rag to the side and crawled over to her furs. She settled down on her fur. When she pressed her eyes together, she was surprised with just how badly she wished to cry.


	24. XXIV

"What about this?" she asked, pulling back the hair from the top of Ahote's head. "And you cut off the sides. I saw a man wearing his hair like this just the other day. I would get the hair out of his eyes."

"He is not a man. His head cannot be shaved."

"So we let it grow until he is nothing but a mess of hair?" she asked in disbelief, letting his hair fall about around him. He shook his head, laughing as the hair went back and forth.

"It can be cut, but his head cannot be shaved," he clarified. He then repeated, "Not until he is a man."

"And when will he be a man? Because this will not do," she said. There was nothing at all the matter with long hair on men. Lawrence himself had a thick head of hair that ended a bit passed his ears, but the mess atop of Ahote's head was monstrous.

"When he can complete his manhood trials."

"Manhood trials?" She asked with monotone skepticism.

"A boy. Twelve or so summers, depends on his strength of body and will, will venture out into the woods. For two days he will taste no food, and will dance for the great spirit. He will return and he will run the gauntlet, their mother's will mourn the death of their child, and then they will return to the Forrest, three seasons long, and offer their minds to Okeer. If they are chosen, they love the life of the shaman, if not, they arrive home stronger, soldiers and hunters. men ready for the responsibilities of marriage and leadership. "

Alice blinked.

"Absolutely not," she replied. She was pulling Ahote's hair back. He was fussing, anxious to be on their way, but made no further protests.

"I am sorry?" Megedagik asked.

"You will not send this child out into the woods at twelve years old," she informed him. "Absolutely not."

"He must go through the ritual," he answered.

"And have him starve! Have him freeze to death? And nine months away?"

"Months?"

"No. No, no, and no."

"I am sorry, Maskaanna, but you have no say in the matter. He will live through the ritual, and then his head may be shaved."

"We'll see about that," she muttered. She tied Ahote's hair back and patted his arm. He jumped up excitedly. Megedagik was smiling at her as she got up to her feet and wiped her skirt.

"You are sure you will not join us?"

"I must go check my traps," he answered. "But I will escort you to the river."

She nodded. She did not like going out alone anymore. She no longer ever questioned Megedagik's precautions.

"Mansi?" she called. The little girl came hurrying out of the lodge.

"We get to go see the Pale One!" she cried excitedly. "Pale One. Pale One."

"Sarah, remember," Alice scolded softly.

"Sarah," she crinkled her nose. She giggled. "You have funny names."

"I know," Alice smiled softly and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. Ahote was already rummaging through the bag of food she had readied for later, but he handed it over when she asked for it.

"Can we play hide and seek at the river?" Ahote asked as. He was chomping on a root. They said it was sweet, she had tried it only once, and detested the flavor.

"Of course we can, sweet heart," she said, ruffling the mop atop his head. He smiled. He liked her English nickname for him.

"I am going to hide behind the wood pile."

"Oh, Ahote, you mustn't tell me where you are going to hide," she reminded him.

"Oh, right! Um… I'll hide by the beaver damn then."

"Sounds like a fine spot," she chuckled softly. She looked over her shoulder to see if Megedagik heard the exchange. She wanted to share the moment with him. She was pleased when she saw the creases around his eyes, the ever so small tilt of his mouth. The man spoke wonders with his eyes. She had failed to see it early on. They shared the moment and she turned back around, a smile on her lips.

 _Hassun._ She was starting to get used to the game. When they were alone he had her call him it. It was too short a name for such a large man, but the more she said it, the more she liked it.

Ahanu was already working when they arrived, though the sun had not been up long. Many came for new canoes just before the summer ended. Many would not be able to make the journey once the cold weather set in and they had a family to keep warm and feed. Sarah was off to the side, laying back on the grass as she spoke to her husband.

She smiled as she saw them approach. She did not stand, but she sat up to embrace the children when they ran to her. She greeted Megedagik timidly. They did not interact much, and the grizzled warrior still frightened her. Ahanu stopped his work to greet the tribe elder.

"Askuweteau," Megedagik greeted.

"Megedagik."

"Congratulations. May the child be born heathy and strong."

"Thank you," Ahanu said gratefully.

"You will take care with my woman here," Megedagik said brusquely but his words were surprisingly intimate to her ears. No one else seemed to bat an eye. Ahanu nodded, eyebrows lifted to express submissive understanding to the request. Ahanu was older than both Alice and Sarah, though he was still a boy compared to the experienced warrior before him. Alice was beginning to understand the subtleties in their culture, the hierarchy and mores. They were far more sophisticated in thought and practice than she ever gave them credit for.

"She's to go nowhere alone," he said gravely. Alice once again saw the terrible looking man with the eye sown shut. The veins pulsing in his muscled arms. She lowered her eyes to Sarah's delicate hands, gently holding onto hers in her lap.

"I'll make sure of it," Ahanu promised.

"Mansi, Ahote, you listen to the Maskaanna now. Do as she says."

"Yes papa," both children promised. He gave a curt nod to his children and then looked to Alice. She waited for her instruction. He almost always left with an order, a warning. This time he simply stared.

"Is there anything you'd like me to find for you?" he asked. She was not entirely sure how to answer. His words took her by surprise.

"Um, no I think not," she answered. "Unless you find a jug of wine in one of your traps," she attempted the joke. He was not amused but grunted at the attempt. He turned to leave and she jumped up to her feet, "Perhaps maybe -" she ran over to him so she could speak more quietly. "Perhaps if you find some quail eggs. I can make them for you when you return," she offered.

"I meant not to give you more chores."

"It would please me to make them for you," she answered. He stared at her, brow crinkling.

"I will not return until they are found then," he replied. She tried to give a smile but she felt a bit queasy.

She returned to Sarah without either saying another word. Mansi already had Sarah's bonnet off and hair untied. She was running her hands through it and giggling madly. Ahanu was smiling at her as he raked the rock shard back and forth along the charred wood.

"I like it too," he told her. Mansi blushed and turned away. Too young to know anything of men and women, but old enough to be in love. She hid behind Sarah and began braiding her hair shyly.

"He seems in a better mood," Sarah said in English. Ahanu huffed slightly but kept to his work. As their command of their language became stronger, Ahanu realized they now saved English for things they did not want him to know.

"He is," she said. "Or I've been more pleasant to him. Perhaps both. I don't know," she rambled.

"I saw Chilaili yesterday. She brought me a fox her husband killed. Ahanu is making me a hair covering with it. This one is getting frayed."

"I miss Chilaili," Alice replied but she had only just realized it. "I see her still, but she was a comforting presence in the lodge."

"But now you have the children," Sarah smiled.

"Yes," Alice smiled affectionately. Ahote was helping scrape at the canoe under the watchful eye of Ahanu. "I must thank him again. For bringing them back."

"Alice..." Sarah examined the little pouch she had been seeing before they arrived. "He doesn't... hurt you... does he?"

Alice looked up at her. She knew what Sarah was asking. Does he rape you? Alice examined her hands, the bumpy nails.

"No, he doesn't hurt me," she said. "But..."

She paused. If she could not be honest with Sarah, who could she be honest with? She felt the wave of shame rush over her again, the regret of what might have been growing in her womb. She looked to Sarah's belly, the little bump only beginning to show.

"I have taken... comfort in him," she mumbled. She looked up at Sarah to see if she understood. She clearly did, but Alice could not read her gaze. "The first time... first of many... I did not desire it but I let him do as he pleased. It seemed easier than receiving a beating. After... we haven't in a long while." Except for four days earlier. She felt the heat of his kisses tingling in her neck.

 _Hassun._ She had whispered the name as she did her laundry the day before. She liked the name. The secrecy of it. The intimacy.

"There is no shame in it," Sarah said with surprising authority. She was about to go on but she shook her head. Instead, she repeated, "There's no shame in it."

Alice smiled at her dear friend. That little admission alone had lifted a great weight from her shoulders. She embraced Sarah, earning a cry of frustration from Mansi and a curious glance from Ahanu.

"Alice, I must speak with you about something that has been weighing heavily on my shoulders."

"Yes?" she asked, though she wished she had been able to reveal her darker secret. The courage had already left her.

"Alice, the baby... if the baby is born, and perishes... without baptism -"

"Hush now, Sarah, there is no need to think on that now."

"But if -"

"Do you think every little baby that perishes at birth is burning in hellfire?"

"Surely not."

"Do you think if anything happened, god forbid it, to that little boy over there, that the almighty father would see him burn?"

"No I... no."

"And neither will this child," Alice smiled.

"You will be there though. When the time comes? I have never... and I am frightened," she said.

"I will. I promise it."

"Talisa brought me to a birthing last week. She said to better prepare me. I am more frightened now than ever."

"You and the baby will be quite well. Providence will provide," she comforted her friend. "And I will hold your hand the whole while."

"Wawetseka?" Ahanu said. "You will stop speaking that now?"

It was an order phrased as a question.

"We will speak later," Sarah whispered with a smile.

"No! No!" Ahanu suddenly cried out. Both jerked their heads to side and saw him ripping the boy's hand away from the fire. "That's hot!"

It was clear to all adults present he was not angry, merely startled that the boy was so close to physical harm, but the boy, though not burned, was frightened and burst into tears.

Ahanu released his bicep and let him run over to Alice, rubbing his puffy eyes and crying madly.

"He was reaching for the coals," Ahanu explained weakly.

"You did nothing wrong," Alice replied, rocking Ahote back in forth in their embrace. "He has a habit of reaching for anything hot. Pots, rocks, coals. It's worrisome."

"If any of you got hurt under my watch... he'd kill me," Ahanu answered thoughtfully. Alice chuckled softly and pulled Ahote back. He had cried enough, now he needed to be strong. "That is not a joke, Maskaanna. He'd put my throat to the blade."

"Ahote, he didn't hurt you," she reminded him.

"Yuh-yes, he, he pinched my arm," he poured, face crinkling. She looked and indeed there was a red mark from where Ahanu grabbed the boy.

"Do you think your papa would cry over that little mark?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No," he sniffled.

"No, and you know why."

"He's a warrior," he answered.

"That's right, and you will be too one day right?"

He nodded and she touched his hair.

"Go on back then," she instructed. The boy ran back over to Ahanu. He listened carefully as Ahanu showed him what he could and could not touch.

"How is Aiyana?"

"Angry," she answered in English when she noted Ahanu's curious glance upward. "She thinks I should move elsewhere. I fail to see why I should."

"Can you blame her?"

"Wawetseka, please," Ahanu almost whined.

"Just a moment, I will tell you later. The children should not hear this."

He seemed placated.

"I cannot blame her. Not really. I would want the very same were I her… Sarah, they killed everybody. They took our homes and our families.  _I_ will  _not leave._ "

Something in the tone of her voice drew the attention of the children. Mansi looked up from Sarah's golden hair. Ahote came around the side of the canoe to better see her. His little face was turned downward with concern. She smiled at the children, comforting them with kind words, and they went back to their duties.

"Do you…" Sarah paused. She was clearly thinking on how to best word her question. She had grown much in a very short time. Trauma, marriage, pregnancy, it did a lot to instill maturity in such a young girl. "Have you any affection in your heart for this man?"

Alice considered. She looked to Mansi. She looked to Ahote. She could see him in them. She could almost smell him. She felt the hot touch of his lips on her neck.

"I would be saddened if I never saw him again," she answered. It was honest, but even with what she was willing to admit to herself, was not the whole truth.

"I have informed Ahanu that he is not to take another wife. He has promised as such. I think it would be less daunting, were their marriage practices not so…. Barbaric."

"Never a ceremony? Alice asked for what felt like the millionth time.

"Never," Sarah answered. "it simply was."

They fell silent. Ahanu took the time to begin asking questions in his tongue, hoping to draw the conversation back to his tongue. They spoke to Ahanu a bit, but Alice found she was not so interested in what he had to say, but Sarah was quite intent on his words. Alice played with the children. Ahanu let Ahote scrap out the burned out canoes as long as he wished. Eventually, the boy got bored of the manual labor and decided games were more fun. He left for a while to play with his friends by the river. Alice disliked it, but Mansi swore that Megedagik let him come and go as he pleased.

"Alright, but you don't go past the big cracked rock at the bend of the river," she cautioned. He nodded, tried to go, and she made him repeat it back. She made him promise to return before dusk and he scurried away.

He returned a few hours after midday with a scraped knee and eyes puffy from crying. He held out his hands to reveal scraped palms. He found Alice through his fog of tears and Alice gently placed him in her lap to examine the scrapes.

"Poor baby," she cooed, "Let me see. Oh, you did a fine job of this."

"Ko – Ko – Kono p-pushed me down on th-the rocks."

"That was very mean," she said. She took the jug of water offered by Ahanu and gently rinsed the tiny little rocks from his red hand.

"H-he's this tall and b-bigger," he sniffled.

"Sometimes people aren't very nice. You just have to stand up for yourself and be strong," she said.

"Here," Ahanu said and gave her some scraps of buck skin to wrap his hand in.

"Mama?"

The word did not register with Alice. She heard it so rarely. She gently wrapped the tiny hand, careful not to apply too much pressure.

"Mama?"

She looked up in surprise.

"Oh, honey, Alice remember."

"She's not your mama," Mansi pointed out from behind Sarah. She was running her fingers through the silky yellow locks.

"You don't want to be my mama?" he asked. She finished tying the first hand and stopped to look at him. She touched the side of his face and rubbed her thumb along his cheek.

"Of course, I do, sweat heart, and I am going to take care of you, but you have a mama, and your papa wouldn't want you calling me mama."

"I don't have a mama," he said. "Everyone else has a mama but me."

"That's not true. Ohanko and Sike don't have mamas. Neither does Anoki – "

"Mansi, thank you, please," Alice said gently. "Ahote. I'm not your mama and papa wouldn't like you calling me that. But I'll be a mama, and you call me, Alice."

"No, but I want you to be mama –"

"Ahote, sweetie –"

"No!" he screeched. Alice sighed. He was sad, tired, angry, and in pain. She bit her bottom lip and reached out to touch his hair. He jerked away, stomping his foot and screeching. It was the first real temper tantrum she'd seen out of him. He would often get pouty, he would cry and yell, but he'd never misbehaved so badly. She was torn between being hard on the outburst and being gentle. William was a docile boy. She'd never really had to deal with this kind of behavior before. She was not sure how to handle it.

"Ahote!" she said sternly, but did not raise her voice. She got up to her feet. He continued to stomp and shout. "Sarah, I am bringing Ahote home. Will you watch Mansi please?"

"No!" Ahote shouted. She reached for him, wrapped her arms around his little bicep. He let out a yell and gave her a shove. It was the surprise of it that knocked her over, not the force. He darted off into the woods as Ahanu came to pick her up from the ground.

"Ahote!" she called after him. Ahanu held her wrist and kept her from chasing after him.

"He won't go far. He'll be back by dusk. Just let him go," Ahanu said.

"He does this at home sometimes," Mansi added. "He comes back a bit later."

"This is normal behavior?" Alice asked. Mansi nodded. She muttered and brushed off her dress. "Well that will need to be corrected immediately."

She looked off after him and then looked at Ahanu.

"He'll be safe?" she asked. He nodded.

"He won't go far," Ahanu said.

Alice sat down but she still had a deep seeded feeling of dread gnawing in her stomach the rest of the day. She kept an eye on the sky and as the blue began to disappear and white clouds began to turn gray, she pushed herself up to her feet.

"I am going to go make sure Ahote made it home," Alice said. "A storm is rolling in. Mansi, with me, please." She got up to her feet and collected her things. "Will you join us tomorrow for dinner? Megedagik should be returning with quite a bit of meat."

"We would love to," Sarah smiled.

"If he approves, of course," Ahanu added. Alice nodded.

Mansi chattered as they walked back, but Alice's brain was muddled with worry. When she arrived back at the hut to find only Aiyana around the fire and rain drops beginning to fall from the sky, terror gripped her.

"Come inside, Mansi," Aiyana called to the girl gently.

"Ahote has not come back?" Alice asked. Aiyana shook her head.

"With a friend, I would guess. It's not uncommon for children to hunker down elsewhere during storms. There is nothing to worry about," she said. Her words were surprisingly gentle. Alice looked up at the sky.

"I am going to try and find him."

Aiyana looked up sharply.

"You will not," she replied. "It's going to be a downpour. He's somewhere safe."

"You, Aiyana, you don't understand, he left very upset, and his hands were scraped. His knee. I just –"

"He is not the first little boy to get upset with scraped knees and run off. I know nothing of your people, but this common here. He is somewhere safe."

"I need to make sure –"

Her elbow was seized and she was yanked around.

"You need to get inside. He could be anywhere. He'll come home."

"You don't get to tell me what to do, Aiyana," Alice snapped. Aiyana blinked in genuine surprise.

"I am trying to help you."

"Well don't," she cut her off sharply.

"I am Megedagik's principal wife, it is my job to protect those in this household –"

"Then you should be coming to find that little boy with me!" she shouted as she stomped away.

"You'll catch your death!" Aiyana called after her.

She ignored her and continued along the row of lodges along the eastern wall. It was where Ahote sent much of his day. Many of the young boys his age lived along the eastern wall. No one had seen the little boy since the morning. She stopped by to see Talisa. The woman told her he was somewhere safe and that children knew when storms came. There was no need to go looking for him. She tried to get her to hunker down with her until the storm passed. She had food, hot tea, and some tobacco. She declined gratefully and even as Talisa followed her halfway down the trail,  _insisting_ that the boy was safe, she pressed onward.

She checked his normal play locations. She called for him, voice growing louder as the thunder rumbled above and the angry looking clouds went alight.

"Ahote!" she cried out. She walked along the river bank, hoping she might find him there, sitting and sulking. She racked her brain for more ideas. Maybe he  _was_ hunkered down somewhere, safe and warm, laughing happily as he drank warm honey tea and listened to stories. Still, she pressed onward. Mother's intuition. She simply couldn't go back and leave him out here alone, even if it turned out Aiyana was right. She could handle humiliation. She could not bear the regret.

She skirted along the bank to the old rock with the jagged crevice cutting it down the middle. She checked the crevice, large enough to fit a little boy and found it empty. She almost turned back. The sky split open. A fierce bolt of light illuminated the sky, splitting through the dark rain clouds above her head, letting the frightful boom of nature's anger come crashing down around her. The rain fell like a stone to water. Loud, hard, and fast. She moved passed the rock. She had told him not to go passed it. What did an angry little boy with a frightful temper do when told to do something? Do the opposite.

And true to the timid nature of a rebellious and sweet little boy, she did not get much passed the giant boulder before she heard the soft little cry in response to her desperate attempts to call out over the torrent of rain.

She whirled around and found a dark little head peeking out from the crook of a rotted, dead tree.

"Oh, thank god," she breathed and marched toward him.

"It started to thunder and I got scared," he whined. She pressed herself up close to the tree and gently pushed him back inside.

"Stay out of the rain," she told him. Another vicious crack of lightening and a crash of lightening. He would have been safe, he was dry, shielded by the dry wood that cocooned him safely. He was clever. He had placed himself nicely. The tree itself was not one likely to attract lightening. The top had toppled over keeping it lower, well below the trees that surrounded them, and kept him hidden from the rain, cold and wind. But the relief she felt, the feel of his hands wrapping tightly arounds her was well worth the search. She felt a sliver of fear, but focused on the frightened child hiding in the tree.

The rain fell down hard. She kept her face angled downward, talking to Ahote, trying as hard to keep herself distracted from the whipping wind and the terrible lightning as she did him. He asked her to sing to him. She did, and soon enough, the rain stopped, the thunder passed, and Ahote was squeezing himself out of the tree and embracing her warmly.

"I'm sorry I pushed you," he whispered. She kissed his cheek.

"We're going to talk about this when we get home. Your father needs to know."

"No, no, please no, I won't ever again," he vowed. She shivered and patted his cheek.

"Ahote," she said sternly. He fell silent, pouted, and walked beside her with arms crossed over his chest. This was a job for Megedagik. A mother's job was love, warmth, and compassion. A father's job was sternness, to teach responsibility and hard work and how to be a man. "If your father sees you like that things won't be any easier for you," she cautioned him as they approached the lodge. His dropped his arms to his side but the pout remained on his face.

Megedagik came out of the lodge as he heard them approach. Alice felt a smile come to her lips, but the look on his face had it drop just as soon as it spread.

"He was stuck in a tree," she said, breathlessly. She touched her skirt and laughed. "I did not fit. Clearly."

"You find this funny?" Megedagik asked.

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"Ahote, inside. You, I will deal with later."

"But I found a spot!"

"And Mansi tells me you pushed the Maskaanna. That we will speak about."

"But papa –"

"Megedagik –"

"Silence!" he shouted. She took a step back. Ahote ran inside. Megedagik stalked toward her. She flinched as he stopped before her. His hand found the back of her neck. His fingers pressed hard into her flesh, forcing her head upward. He smelled like tobacco, smoke, and wet grass. "Are all white women so stupid?"

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"What were you thinking? Galivanting through the forest in a rain storm."

"I was finding your son!"

"Who was safe!" he all but screamed.

"I didn't know that!" she shouted back.

"But Aiyana did! And she told you as much!" he bellowed. She blinked. People were coming out of their lodge. Her face burned in embarrassment.

"I don't take orders from Aiyana," she answered.

"Yes, you do. You are my prisoner and she is my  _wife_."

Her throat swelled and it was hard to swallow.

"I see," she said. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and looked at a necklace around his neck. She nodded and looked back at him, a tight smile on her face. "But I will never ignore that child's safety."

"Your people might be inept and weak when faced with mother nature's greatness, but we are a strong people, and I will not have your influence turning my children….  _White._ "

"Then you should not have brought them back. Because I will not see them raised…" she stood up as straight as she could. Her body trembled in fear, but her eyes burned with hatred. Their nose touched as she all bit hissed, " _savage."_

His arm jerked and she screwed her eyes shut. She tensed, neck taught and face scrunched up tightly. The blow did not come. His hand went into the back of her hair. His hand tightened, pulling at her scalp. She winced, still convinced she was about to be struck. His hand squeezed and her eyes opened. She could not meet his eye.

"You are  _not_ their mother," he reminded her. His voice was hardly a murmur. It was all the more frightening. "You will not _raise_  my children. And if you ever disobey an order from my  _wife_ again, I'll give you a beating like you've never seen before."

He might as well have hit her. It would have hurt less.

She turned her eyes upward, locking gazes. Her lips trembled with rage. Tears dripped from her eyes. The volume of her voice matched his. It was not for dramatic affect. She lacked the strength to speak any louder.

"I watched my son's skull cave in under the weight of my husband's hammer. That's the beating you'll have to top."

"Your people," he whispered. "were  _weak._ Your husband. Was  _weak._ "

His hand left her hair.

"Now go cook my wife and I dinner."

She stared at him. She looked down first. Slowly, she went to the wood pile and retrieved a few logs. Aiyana crouched by her. She couldn't light the wod. Her hands were trembling.

"Maskaanna, let me," she said gently.

"I can do it," she said, ripping her hands back. Aiyana moved away from her with no protest. A bowl was placed beside her. When she looked up she saw Megedagik on the other side of the fire, sucking on his pipe, hard eyes set directly on her. She looked back down to the bowl he had placed beside her. Her lips curved upward. Five quail eggs. She picked three up. They rested in her palms. She wondered what she might find after cooking them. Little chicklets, or a delicious meal.

She lifted her hand and slapped it down onto the cutting rock. She felt the shells crack, the yoke on her fingers. She picked up the other two eggs. She slapped them down on the stone. She pressed her hand into the shells, grinding them hard into the rock.

"There is your dinner," she said. She got to her feet and, still dripping wet and cold, marched down the trail toward the center of town. He did not follow her and she did not look back.

* * *

Megedagik watched her leave. He did not turn his head to look as Aiyana left the lodge. She knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and placing a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you." She kissed his cheek again. "For defending me."

Megedagik continued to look after her.

"I know it was harsh, but she needs to learn her place. She is an outsider, remember?"

He grunted. She stroked the top of his head, feeling the hair peaking up through the skin of his scalp.

"The children can go to my sister's. Let the white woman sulk with her yellow friend," Aiyana smiled. She kissed his earlobe. "And we can spend time together."

"I need to speak to my son."

"He did just as he was expected to today," she continued to caress him. "You should be proud. He'll be a strong warrior someday. Like his father."

"He pushed her."

"A white woman," Aiyana argued in surprise.

"A man does not act on his temper," he murmured. He was not speaking to her. He sighed and hung his head. He placed a hand to his forehead and rubbed his forehead into his palm. Aiyana leaned back to better look at him.

"Were you so angry at her for disobeying me or putting herself in danger?" Aiyana asked.

"Send out my son," he said curtly. She hesitated a moment, watching him intently. She disappeared into the lodge. Ahote came out a few moments later, walking slowly, head hung, and shoulders hunched. He stood in front of him patiently.

"Sit down, Ahote," he ordered. The boy sat down beside him. Megedagik looked in the direction the Maskaanna had disappeared. He took a deep breath, ignored the churning in his stomach and the tightness in his chest, and turned to speak to his son.

Hours later, he was about to go out looking for her, and it was only his guilt that kept him from scolding her when she walked in just passed dark and plopped down on her furs. She greeted the children with a weak smile. She did not reach for the bowl Aiyana had prepared for her.

"Eat," he ordered. She wrapped the bear pelt around her.

"I'm not hungry," she answered. She would not meet his eye. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. If that is alright with Aiyana, of course."

She did not look up once. There was a bite in her voice. He chose to ignore it.

"You need to get out of that dress. It's still wet."

"I have nothing else," she said. He would have pushed the issue, but she lay down and covered herself with the pelt. He could feel Aiyana's eyes on him and he said nothing. With arms outstretched he beckoned his children to him. They snuggled up beside him and he cocooned them in his arms.

"A story tonight?" he asked them. They chattered happily, each competing with the other on their suggested stories. He smiled and looked to Aiyana. "Do you have suggestions?"

She looked up disinterested. She had taken out some paint. Delicately, she was applying a red brush to hard clay. "Whatever they wish."

"The one of the Northern Wars!"

"The hummingbird and the fire bringer."

He smiled and stroked his daughter's check. He looked across the fire at the white face peeking out from beneath the bear pelt, eyes open, observing silently.

"Maskaanna?"

She watched him. Her eyes darted toward Aiyana. Aiyana's eyes returned to her pot. She turned around, her back the answer she gave him.

"She likes the one with the black bear," Ahote said.

"That's her favorite," Mansi agreed.

Megedagik considered. He could feel Aiyana's eyes on him. He could imagine the Maskaanna's eyes. Open and staring out at the wall in front of her nose, listening and waiting.

"Gather here, children," he said, tapping the furs before him. They scrambled to take their seats. He held out his hands, ready to start his story, enjoying the look of joy that came to his children's faces. He began, voice low and menacing. Ahote rocked back and forth in excitement. "The old man crept from the lodge, walking stick clutched in his wrinkled old hand. Sitting down before the crowed of anxious warriors, he looked to them, proud, frightened faces of boys not yet men, ready to prove themselves to their villages. But old man opened his withered lips, white hair flowing from the western wind. And with a voice as soft as the wet clay of the river banks, he spoke of a terrible beast, fur as black as night, teeth as sharp as the arrow, his lust for blood as savage as the rabid wolf and as mighty as the wild cat. A beast, so frightful, it had lived for centuries, feasting on the bones of children sent to them from a frightful god…"

* * *

When she awoke the next day her head ached and her chest burned. Her head felt like a stone. She glanced over at Aiyana and Megedagik's sleeping area. She sighed and rubbed a temple. They weren't there. The children were awake and gone. The air outside was bright. She heard birds and laughing children.

Suddenly, a painful eruption of air ripped through her scratchy lungs and out her throat, burning and grating like shards of glass all the way. It was a scratchy rumble in her chest, fire in her lungs, and it took her some time to get herself composed. She tried to stand up but immediately gave up and lowered herself back down to the pelt.

She spent a few more minutes trying to compose herself before getting up and walking outside. She had the deer hide blanket wrapped firmly around her. A shiver coursed through her.

"Do you want some tea?" she asked Megedagik. There was a horrific throbbing in the sinuses above her eyebrows. He looked up at her, sucking on his pipe thoughtfully. He said nothing. He just stared, eyes hard. He was clearly still angry.

She knelt by the fire and picked up the pot. Her hands trembled as she hung it above the flames. It slipped from her hands once before she got it hung.

"Go back to sleep," he said.

"I'm not tired," she lied. She cleared her throat to keep another painful fit of coughs from erupting in her lungs.

"There is not water in that pot," he said. "Go back to sleep."

"Where is Ahote?" she asked.

"At the river with Aiyana," he answered.

"Oh," she murmured. She felt a pulse of jealously send a tremor through her heart.

"Maskaanna," he said sternly. She looked up. Her eyes hurt. They felt swollen. "Inside. Right now."

She wanted to protest, but her head hurt too badly. She pushed herself up and walked into the lodge. She laid back down on her bear pelt and suffered through another violent tremor. She laid her swollen head down on the fox pelt when the flap opened and Megedagik stepped into the lodge. He pulled the flap to the side, blocking out the sun. He set the fire and hung a kettle filled with water.

"Ahote wanted you to bring them to the river," he rumbled. "Aiyana will not play with them. Do not fear."

She rattled off a cough and tried to sit up.

"I had to make sure he was safe," she said. He said nothing, staring down at the water in the kettle.

"The situation is what angers me, not you," he said. "My son and… you were out in that storm and there was nothing I could do."

She watched him pour the water and brew the tea. He came closer and handed it to her. Her hands closed over his. She left his hand there. His hand was cold to the touch. Usually, he was so warm.

"I do not like feeling helpless," he admitted. He brought the cup up to her lips. She took a sip. It was thick with honey. It was heavenly. She drank it all down and he took the cup back. A large hand touched the back of her neck, his thumb trailed back and forth gently.

"Go to sleep and the next time you go running out into a rainstorm, I'll give you the thrashing you deserve, fever or no fever," he cautioned. She offered a weak, tired smile. He lowered her down gently and made sure the blankets covered her. Her eyes were already heavy. He did not leave. As her head began to cloud with exhaustion, she reached out to make sure he was still there. Her finger tips brushed against the hot skin of his thigh. He was still there when she fell asleep.

Her cough grew worse into the night. Her skin was flushed, sweaty, and hot. She was coherent, but lethargic, and she had no desire to eat. He had to force her to drink the tea. He moved the children to a friend's lodge for the duration of her illness. He suggested that Aiyana leave, and though she seemed tempted, she refused to leave. She made a broth for the Maskaanna to drink. She washed her down with a cloth at the end of the night, stripped her from the soaked dress and covered her with a fresh blanket.

"I need to go to my sister's," Aiyana said. "She'll still be drinking broth in the morning and I need some fresh supplies."

Megedagik nodded slowly. She left. The sunlight wafting into the room had the Maskaanna stirring. Megedagik pulled the flap back over. It had not been cruelty but indifference. He returned to her side and placed a hand on her sweaty forehead.

"How do you feel?" he asked. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Horrible," she whispered. It was a scratchy voice.

"More tea?"

"Not right now," she answered. Her hand found his. Hot and clammy. She squeezed gently. "The children –"

"With Aiyana's sister," he answered. She nodded. She heaved and coughed. He put a comforting touch her shoulder.

"My chest," she lamented as she fell back. She brought a hand to her forehead.

"Head," he said. He tapped her forehead. "This is your head."

"I know," she said and rattled off a laugh. It sounded painful. She forced a smile through the pain. "Maybe… that tea?"

He moved to fulfill the request. When he returned her eyes were closed. They fluttered open at the sound of her name from his lips.

"Thank you," she whispered. He helped her sit up and grip the cup. He watched her intently, brow furrowed with concern. She looked worse than she had just a few hours before.

"I love those children," she told him. "You can't take them away from me again."

"I won't," he vowed. "They stay with us."

"You need to talk to him about his mother," she took another sip of tea. Her shoulders shook as she tried to smother a cough. "It was why he ran off."

"He told me already. We talked some but…" he lowered the cup from her lips as she coughed some more. His brow furrowed in concern. "I am taking him into the woods tomorrow. We will talk. Man to man."

"Father to son, perhaps," she suggested with a scratchy voice and a pained smile. "He's a little boy."

"Who will be a man one day."

She placed a hot and clammy hand to his cheek. He disliked seeing her in such discomfort. He had not seen that look of physical agony in her eyes for some time. The feeling it aroused him now was far stronger than he remembered.

"Someday. Not tomorrow. Be gentle."

He was brought back to a time when his wife was alive. Beautiful Lemana, reminding him how sensitive Mansi was, that he needed to mind his temper.

"Children cannot be raised without a mother," he said appreciatively. "I am pleased the Great Spirit brought you to us."

Her eyes lowered but when she brought them back up, her lips were curved upward.

"My words yesterday were born of anger -"

"I'm tired," she whispered. She held out the cup to him. He took it from her and watched her settle back down to the furs. Her hand reached out to find his. "You will not go far?"

"I will not," he answered. He remained beside her. Even when Aiyana returned he did not leave her side. He helped Aiyana with the broth, bringing the bowl to her lips himself as Aiyana sat behind her, keeping her propped up against her body.

"This is a fever," Aiyana said.

"I am aware of that."

"No. A  _fever,"_ Aiyana came back severely. "If this doesn't break –"

"It will break." His voice was sharper, fuller of panic than he would have liked. He lowered the bowl of broth she was fighting to resist. He picked up the damp rag from the bowl of water and gently dabbed her forehead. He could feel Aiyana's eyes on him. Hard and attentive.

"I will go fetch Talisa," Aiyana all but whispered. She gently removed herself from behind the Maskaanna. She lowered her down gingerly and left abruptly. Megedagik's eyes did not leave the pale face before him. He gently dabbed at her forehead. He wiped the sweaty hair from her face. He felt her flushed cheeks with his knuckles.

"I spoke to Ahote today," he told her. "He understands now." She stirred, brow furrowing. Her eyes remained closed. He muttered, "You are mother to him now though. I cannot stop that." She turned her face toward him. Her lips opened and closed like a fish just brought to shore. "I don't much want to though."

"Hassun," she whispered softly. Her hand lifted in the air weakly. His took the fragile little hand. He kissed one of the bumpy nails. Each a different shape than the rest.

"Alice?" he whispered. "Can you hear me?"

"Hass… Hass…"

"Shhh," he soothed her. He stroked her sweaty hair. "Sleep."

She said nothing else. Talisa rubbed an ointment on her chest, forced a foul smelling tea down her throat and left a root for her to chew on when the fever broke. She was comforting, but there was a terrible sadness in her eyes that he did not think would ever pass. Not since Milap disappeared. He thanked her for her help and she returned home with a promise to return the next day.

"Come to sleep. She'll be asleep for hours with that tea," she said.

"I want to stay close," he answered. "Just in case."

"Just in case what?" she asked. He looked over at her. They held each other's gaze a long time. He looked down at the pale face, suffering, sweating, shivering, yet wrapped in a pelt in a lodge that was too hot. He was reminded of the cruel fact that this woman would never love him, never be his wife, never carry his children.

"You're right," he whispered. He began to move from her but stopped as a noise escaped the Maskaanna.

"Ha-Hassun?" she asked breathlessly.

"Alice?" he asked. He reached out to touch her forehead. She once again began her impression of a fish.

"What did she call you?" Aiyana asked. Megedagik turned his head to look at her, eyes slightly wide.

"What?"

"What did she call you?" she repeated.

"She must have heard you," he said.

"No. She didn't. I've never used that name in front of her," she insisted.

"Then… Talisa. Talisa calls me –"

"You told her that name?" she asked. Her voice was soft, weak, full to brim with hurt.

"Aiyana. Please."

"You  _told her_  that name?" she repeated.

"Yes," he admitted. "I did. And I gave her permission to call me it when we were alone."

Her lower lip trembled. She bit her tongue to stop the tremble but her eyes were wet. She rolled her glassy eyes upward to keep the tears from falling.

"Have you touched her?" she asked.

"You know I have," he answered.

She nodded. She looked back to him. A tear slipped from her eye. His heart thundered in his chest. It was almost painful. The fire crackled, the heat was almost unbearable. He wanted to turn his head to see if Alice was shivering. He didn't.

"You promised me," she whispered. Another tear dripped from an eye. She made no move to bat it away. The look on her face had his chest hallow, empty. Her teeth caught her lip between her lips as she tried to keep any more tears from falling. Suddenly, the void in his chest was filled with a torrent of agony and guilt. He searched for words.

"I am sorry," he rumbled. He looked to the flames. Tears slipped from Aiyana's eyes. She licked them from her lips. Neither said a word for some time.

"Is this… why you brought her back? Did you see her during the peace offering?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, I swear it to you. This was unplanned."

"Do you love her?" she asked.

"No," he answered, but the word was bitter on his tongue.

"Is it," she licked her bottom lip. "Is it because I can't have children?" His heart shattered.

"No, Aiyana,  _no._ "

"She needs to leave."

His eyes left the fire. He found her gaze, wet, glassy, full to the brim with devastation.

"I suppose… Kesegowase…"

"Not this  _lodge,_ this village," she said sharply. "Send her and the children back to Donehogawa, and you and I can be a family. Otherwise we… I love you, Hassun, but I cannot share you. I will not."

He looked back to the flames. They flickered in the air. He followed a spark upward, through the air hole in the ceiling.

"I'm sorry."

Her face crumbled and she looked up at the ceiling. Tears pinched from her eyes as she screwed them shut. His heart throbbed.

She lowered her head and turned. He heard the clatter of bowls, pouches of herbs, the rubbing of fabric. He looked back to the fire. His eyes were opened wide, he didn't blink.

"Aiyana," he said. She continued throwing things into the pack. He could hear her sharp, shuddering intakes of breath, the violent sniffles as she tried to hide it. "Aiyana."

She shook her head. She continued to throw her things into a bag.

"Chumani," he whispered. She stopped abruptly. She lowered her head. She was never one to blubber. She was not a loud crier. Even now, he would hear only her sniffling and breathing. He let her collect herself. She turned her head, looking at him over a shoulder. "I didn't mean for this happen."

She nodded and looked down at the sack in her lap. She played with the ties in her fingers. Long, slender, beautiful hands. So unlike the mangled mess of nails attached to the hot, clammy hand beside him. His throat ached and he swallowed thickly.

"Hassun," she whispered. She licked the salt from her upper lip and angrily wiped a tear from her cheek. She looked at him. She spent some time trying to collect herself. She had to close her eyes. Finally, her eyes opened. She sniffled. "It was an honor, being your wife, but now I must set you aside, and find someone worthier of my love."

"I understand," he answered softly. She stood, holding the bag to her chest.

"I will stay with my sister," she said. She took in a breath. She looked over at the pale face cocooned in bear fur beside him. "Goodbye, Hassun. I will always love you."

"Good bye, Chumani," he whispered. He could not look at her as she left. He sat there, looking at the other side of the lodge where he and Aiyana had spent the past three years together. It looked empty.

A log snapped and fell. Sparks went flying into the air. He followed them upward to the dark sky peering in through the slot. No stars. He doubted even the moon was visible. He hoped Aiyana watched her feet.

"Hassun."

It was a soft little breath. A flutter of a whisper. He turned and submerged the rag into the pale of water. He rung it out and pressed it to her forehead. "Hassun."

"Shh, Alice," he murmured. He pressed his knuckles to her cheek.

His chest ached. A painful, emptiness. He felt the loss of her already. It hurt. Not unsimilar to how he felt when he lost his wife, though not to the same magnitude. Still, he had not been prepared for this. He had not been prepared for this much pain.

And as he gently played with the ends of the pale woman's hair, damp with sweat, he tried to sort through the loss he felt. The pain of the loss, the guilt of his betrayal, the shame of his broken promise. Yet amazingly, to his great relief, as he looked down at her, his fear returning to join the torrent of emotions swirling within his empty chest, he felt not a single ounce of regret.


	25. XXV

XXV

"You will not feel it move for another few months," Ahanu smiled as he walked into the hut. She was lying down with her hands on her belly.

"Alice felt Jane kick after just four months," she stated.

"It's been hardly half a season," he chided. "And the Maskaanna had a child prior? Little William? Women always feel a second child sooner."

"Why?"

He sat down beside her and placed the bird in front of her. She set about plucking it.

"Talisa would know," he answered.

"What do you want to name him? Or her? I hope it's a boy."

"Name him?" he frowned. He reached out and touched her belly. "Well, he will tell us that."

"You pick your own names?" She asked in disbelief.

"No, but you do not name the child until you know the child. The day he was born. His manner upon birth... facts like that. And once the name is chosen, we keep it secret, and society gives him his common name."

She blinked at him.

"Society?"

"Yes, only you call me Ahanu. It was given to me as a boy by my mother. Etchemin, I am called because I make canoes. Askuweteau, because of my strengths in battle."

"I wanted to name a boy Thomas. It was my father's name. And a girl for my mother," she explained. Ahanu pinched his lips together and considered how to beat address the situation.

"It could me a name, but it cannot be how the tribe knows them, or they will never be accepted."

"Because I'm white?"

He watched her hands work against the bird.

"We belong to the tribe of our mothers," he explained. "This child may be loved and respected, but it will never be Powhatan."

Ahanu pushed her back and settled above her stomach. He kissed the little bump and then rested his cheek on her belly. Sarah smiled and stroked the shaved half of his head.

"Ahanu?" she asked softly. He murmured something against her belly. "Do you think maybe… after what happened… what if –"

"No," he said. He looked up at her and shook his head. "You're not to even consider it. We will never know. Do not waste time on it."

"But what if it's not –"

"This is my child, Sarah," he said. "Mine. No matter what. And I want you to be silent on the matter."

A small smile came to her lips, though the fear still nagged in her chest.

"You must get up if you want dinner," she chided him. He remained where he was, but moved to his chin rested against her and he could look up at her.

"Perhaps after," he said.

"After?" she asked and shifted. He pressed his lips to hers and pulled at her dress. "Ahanu," she laughed. "I am repulsive."

She pressed at his shoulders weakly. He continued to place kisses on her jaw and neck. He got her skirt up around her hips and smiled at her.

"Wawetseka, be my wife?" he asked. She smiled. She shook her head.

"Ask me tomorrow," she answered, clasping her hands behind his neck.

"Tomorrow, you'll say yes," he answered confidently, flashing a grin. He dipped his head and caught her lips again. When he hooked his arms beneath her knees and pulled her toward him, she erupted into a fit of blissful giggles.

* * *

He let the children back in once the fever broke. From his experience, the danger was over. She was pleased to see the children, though she was still weak when they clambered into the lodge to see her. She raised a hand in greeting but could not lift her head from the pillow. He scolded the children, but she greeted them with a weak smile and a pat to the cheek.

"I made you this," Mansi said, holding out a little pouch made of beaver hide. "For your flowers and herbs."

"Thank you," she smiled and examined it with tired fingers. "I love it."

"I found this for you!" Ahote cried. He held out a little shell between his fingers.

"Liar! Alice found that with me!" Mansi cried and wretched it from his hand. The two began to squabble and Megedagik shooed them from the lodge. The Maskaanna smiled as she laid her head back to the pillow and closed her eyes.

"I have never felt so poorly."

"Never?" he asked, pouring water from the steaming hot kettle into the prepared tea cup. She sat up with a wince as he approached. Her hands were cool to the touch as their skin made contact. It was a welcome sign.

"Perhaps once," she answered. "Truthfully, I do not remember that well."

She took a sip from the tea. She let out a sigh of pleasure at the taste.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I have an ache in my head, my chest feels tight, but I think the worst is behind me. I would do it again. I will not apologize for what I did. In my village, if a child was missing before a storm like that, the entire village would go searching for him."

"Then the whole village gets ill. We teach our children to interact with nature safely. I have told you, Ahote could swim before he could walk. He knows how to find shelter in a storm. He knows what food to eat when lost. It is expected of a boy his age."

"I do not know if that is something I can ever get used to," she admitted. "Everything is just so… different."

"Savage?" he asked with surprising calm in his voice.

"You were crueler than I," she answered. He said nothing. He could not rightly dispute the fact. She continued to drink the tea in silence.

"I will fresh water for you."

He moved from his empty side of the lodge and took hold of the near empty water jug. There was enough for her, but he had been using it to wipe her down for the past two days. He wanted to get her a fresh jug.

"I will join you if you don't mind," she said. "I'd like some fresh air. It is stuffy in here."

"It is cold," he protested.

"I will bring my pelt."

"You are weak."

"I will have you to lean on," she answered. He did not protest further. She reached for the wolf pelt. The bear pelt was too heavy and too cumbersome.

He took her hand in his as she tried to get to her feet. Pale fingers wrapped around his hard, crushing the calloused, brown fingers in her fragile grasp. She got up to her feet and let out a triumphant sigh.

"Not so bad after living on broth for three days," he congratulated.

"Three days?" she asked with muted surprise.

"I might have said things I regret," he said by way of apology. It was the most she would get, as he meant the words he had spoken; it was only her pain he regretted. "But my promise for a thrashing stands."

"I will probably be receiving a thrashing in the near future then," she mused softly. "Make sure Aiyana is there to watch. I am sure she will enjoy it."

He turned her hand in his and examined the fingers. He pulled her hand from his, ready to stand on her own. They walked down the trail toward the opening in the gates. He glanced toward Aiyana's sister's lodge, but found no one outside and no smoke coming from the ceiling slot. He was well aware of his children following at a safe distance, still squabbling over the shell.

The pale white woman breathed in deeply beside him. Her head was congested and her breathing was wheezy, but a smile came to her lips.

"I love the autumn. The colors…"

"It is the same in your land?"

"Yes," she considered. "Yes and no. Different colors. They are more vivid here. It is hard to explain."

"Tell me of your land," he said. They walked passed the gate. She was walking on her own but he could tell she was tiring. He wanted to reached out and touch her, but he reared the rejection.

"It rains often," she told him. "But it is beautiful. Our houses are made of stone or wood. Back in England, I lived a tiny little hut. A single room, and there were seven of u plus my parents. Here, Lawrence built us a fine home. Larger than I'd ever have imagined. Like the important people. I assume it was… burnt down," she said. She looked to the ground.

"Perhaps not," he answered. "Matchitehlew followed you into the forest. He did not have time to set it ablaze."

"That is comforting," she answered dryly. He lowered his eyes. "How far away is my son?"

He paused and considered.

"Two days," he answered. He did not tell her he regretted leaving him so far. He considered his actions a kindness when he first found her. Any other person, he'd have left to rot. Now, if he could do it again, he would have brought the child here, given him the burial her people believed proper.

"At end of winter, I will bring you there. The remains I will bring back and we will give him a burial of your people," he said. His voice sounded raw to his ears.

"No," she said softly. "His body is at rest. We cannot disturb it."

They fell into silence for a long while. She leaned against him. Her arm was gentle as it forced its way around his, holding onto his bicep. It was soft and slender. He was reminded of her vulnerability, her fragility. For the millionth time he was in awe of what she managed to accomplish against a proven warrior. He held her arm tightly to his side.

She was his prisoner. With Aiyana gone, he could most likely do as he pleased and she would not resist, but he wanted her as his wife. He wanted the status, he wanted everyone to know, and when they had children, they would have one less hurdle to jump.

Membership in the tribe, baring some extraordinary circumstance, as he and his brothers could well attest, derived from one's mother. Their children would always face discrimination, scorn, distrust, until they were strong and could face the gauntlet. Their daughters would have a rougher path. He prayed for their beauty.

"But I would like to visit him," she added. She had tears in her eyes but they did not fall. Her arm tightened around his. He held her arm closer. His chest was full.

They continued to walk on in silence. Ahote showed up beside them. He glanced around the Maskaanna at Megedagik and then took her hand. He stepped back, hiding himself from his view. Mansi stepped up and wrapped her arms around his. Megedagik smiled down at his daughter. He loved his children, he could see Lemana in them.

He wanted children with her. He wanted to see little humans with her eyes, her smile, her defiance, her strength. He enjoyed the walk. His tiny little family. He did not need another wife. He ached over Aiyana. He did. But it was not the loss of one he loved. It was nothing to the loss of Lemana. He regretted it, that he could not love her the way she needed.

They arrived at the river and she plopped down on the ground. Ahote sat down beside her to show her a mark he received rough housing with some friends. He filled the bucket with water. Once down, he left it submerged to keep it cool, and sat down beside her. Ahote rose and wondered along the shore line with Mansi.

"They are obsessed with finding shells now," he informed her. She smiled softly. She was still pale. She had dark circles around her eyes. "When the winter ends, we will go to the coast."

"I would like that," she answered. "I'm hungry."

"Is there anything you particularly wish for?" he asked. "I can find it for you."

"No, anything really. I am rather hungry all of a sudden," she realized.

"You have not had solid food for three days," he reminded her. She shivered and pulled the pelt around her more tightly around herself.

"Come. It is time we return." He needed to get her in front of a fire.

He stood first. She looked up expectantly as he crouched down to assist her. He grasped both her elbows and gently lifted her to her feet. His hands lingered too long, but he did not care. He was grateful she lived. He had fasted. He had even gone to the shaman at the edge of the village. She might not wish to be his wife, but she was his woman now, and he felt strangely sentimental in that moment.

"Mansi will prepare us a meal," he said. Mansi nodded seriously, ready for the important task. She had never prepared a meal on her own, but she was of that age, and he could think of no better opportunity for her to begin taking on more responsibility.

"Did Sarah come looking for me at all?" she asked as they began walking.

"Yes, once. I informed her of your illness and that she must stay away. She was quite insistent on seeing you, but I barred her entrance."

"Could we send word to her that I've recovered? I do not want her to be anxious in her condition."

"Ahote, go to the Pale One, tell her the Maskaanna is awake and well."

The boy bolted off at once. Mansi pouted and expressed her desire to see the Pale One. She was absolutely obsessed with her yellow hair. Megedagik ordered her to stay. She had a meal to prepare. Mansi understood the importance of her task and fell silent.

"I am tired."

She did not reach out for him again and they walked the rest of the way in silence, their arms hanging next to each other, never quite touching. She sat down before the outer file and he lit the flame first. He brought out the bear pelt for her next, wrapping her in it securely. She thanked him softly and asked Mansi to start some tea.

"Is Aiyana still angry with me?" she asked after a moment of pause. Megedagik continued to pack his pipe. He motioned to Mansi, silently indicating the correct cooking to pot to boil the beans in. She dutifully set about her task.

"Yes," he answered dryly.

"I refuse to apologize," she asserted. He lit his pipe and sucked on the end, breathing the smoke deeply into his lungs as he considered. She expected all the privileges of a wife, submitted to the duties of a wife, but refused to accept the name. It baffled him. But her constant challenge of Aiyana's authority was amusing.

"There will be no need for that," he assured her, though he was not ready to tell her Aiyana had left.

"Mansi, honey, that gets very hot, use the cloth there," she instructed. Soon she would have to switch sides of the fire within. She might not like it, but he wanted her closer now. He felt a thrill of excitement. For the first time since he brought this woman back, he could have her at will, when and where he wanted. Her refusal to fashion herself wife worked in his benefit. If she did not want the title, she received none of the benefits and that included refusal.

"Would the children enjoy collecting leaves?" she asked suddenly. He blinked out of his musings to look at her.

"Collecting leaves?" he asked. He was not sure he heard her correctly.

"William and I would go out in the autumn and find leaves we particularly liked. We would press and dry them to keep for the winter. I did it with my parents back in England. I thought… though we are not so well acquainted with nature…"

Though her voice was quite calm as she said it, he could hear the little bite in her voice.

"I will go!" Mansi smiled happily.

"Go where?" Ahote suddenly asked, dropping down beside the Maskaanna abruptly. He was panting. He'd run the distance, clearly, and had wide eyes, flaring nostrils, and an open mouth.

"To collect pretty leaves when they fall," she answered with a smile.

"Yes!" he said excitedly, but then stopped. "No, but papa said he would bring me hunting this season."

"Both are quite possible," Megedagik mused dryly. The smile came back to his face.

"Yes, yes."

"The same rules will apply to you," Megedagik told her. She looked up. "About leaving the village walls. I don't know where he is."

She nodded. Mansi handed her a cup of hot tea. She waited for it to cool, blew on it with pretty pursed lips, and took a sip.

"Is it possible that you find out?" she asked. Ahote was watching Mansi cook. He kept reaching out and she kept slapping his hands away. "Where he is," she clarified.

"I am already making efforts, though his friends will protect him. Many outside the walls say you are not a woman, but a devil in disguise. It is the only way you could defeat a warrior."

"That is outrageous," she mused. He shrugged.

"Not to many," he answered. "Looking at you, I sometimes wonder how you managed it at all."

"I don't have answer for you," she murmured. She looked into the fire, eyes sad and tired. "But I am no devil."

He watched her. She continued to examine the flames, but he continued to examine her face. The tiny bump on the bridge of her nose that reminded him her nose had once been a swollen, crooked, bloody appendage on an unrecognizable face, the little scar just above her eyebrow where the skin had been split open with the force of a warrior's mighty fists, her delicate neck, once ringed with a necklace of vicious purple marks.

"No," he mused, lifted the pipe from his lips, "you are something ese entirely."

She looked up at him, considered his words, and then lowered her eyes back to the flames. Neither spoke, content to listen to the crackle of the fire, the chirp of the birds above, and the happy prattle of children.

She went inside an hour or so later to take a nap. Her head was beginning to ache again and she feared a relapse. He prevented the children from disturbing her, though she swore it would be no worry. He knew quite well that the children  _would_  disturb her and he did not want that to happen.

She went inside and he spent some time instructing Ahote on the practice of attaching the blade to a handle. He did not expect the boy to retain most of it but the sooner and more often he was shown it the better off he would be. It was how his father had taught him.

Once the lesson was over, he and Mansi hurried off to, as they told him, meet with friends. When they returned they had Askuweteau in toe, asking Megedagik if he could take them out in his new canoe.

"It's not a problem, really," Askuweteau said with a smile. Megedagik let them go with the promise they return by nightfall. He didn't want the Maskaanna wondering off in the middle of the night. He chuckled softly as they walked away. He collected his belongings and went inside.

The Maskaanna was sleeping soundly, wrapped in her cocoon of blankets. Her pink lips were parted and her face was upturned toward the ceiling. She murmured softly and then fell silent. A smile came to his face as he watched her.

"Where are the children?" she asked softly. He looked up from the and observed her.

"Askuweteau took them fishing," he answered.

She remained on her back. Her eyes scanned the wall behind him. She considered it for a long time. There was no sound but the wind outside and the crackling of fire.

"Where is Aiyana?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone," he repeated. She said no more. She took her eyes from the far wall and turned them upward. She examined the ceiling. Her hands were clasped over her ribs, just beneath her breasts. A finger tapped her knuckle.

"She's not coming back?"

"No," he answered.

"Because of me?" she asked, more softly.

"I refused to send you away."

"To another lodge?"

"Another village," he answered.

She sat up and looked around at her belongings. She had accumulated quite a bit. Many still brought her gifts. Pelts he and others had made her, baskets, herbs collected.

"I suppose you'll be looking for another wife," she mused.

"I am content," he answered simply. They sat in silence a while. His nerves got to him and he packed his pipe. He breathed in the smoke deeply, fast and long enough to give him the lightheaded calmness he enjoyed.

He did not look at her as she began to moved around. He rolled up her bear pelt, wolf pelt and fox furs. She created herself quite the sleeping nest. He had always found it amusing. She was particular with her bedding.

He did look up as she made her way around the fire. She did so on her knees, arms full of fur, and plopped down the heavy load just beside him.

She looked at him and waited. Her eyes were slightly widened. There was vulnerability in them. Bright and wet. He gave a nod and raised his pipe to his lips.

She set about making her nest.

"The children will have more room this way," she explained. He said nothing; there was more than enough room for them without her relocation. "I am not your wife."

He felt no need to answer once again.

She made herself a cup of tea, poured him one, and settled back into her fire. A nice breeze came in through the open flap. She put the tea down and reached for one of his knives. He almost told her to put it down. He had no fear she might use it, but he did not care to think how many of her friends he had scalped with that blade. Perhaps even her husband.

She pressed her finger to the tip and twirled it carefully.

"What was your village like?" she asked. "Different?"

He began to tell her. When he laid down on his side beside her, head propped up by his bent elbow, cheek resting in the palm of his hand, and gently began to stroke the bump of her healed nose, she did not say a word.

Sarah was cooking outside. Ahanu was skinning a deer he had killed earlier in the morning. It was large, and they agreed to bring some venison to Alice and Megedagik later in the day. Sarah wanted to see her. The little boy, Ahote, had told them earlier that she was awake.

"Could we make her something with the hide?" she asked Ahanu.

"I thought we could make mittens and boots for you with it, for the winter," he answered. "I was going to line it with the rabbit fur."

"If there I anything left, then?"

"Of course. I can show you how to make them," he grinned. She heard movement and a smile came to her lips. Ahote had run back and forth almost five times to relay the information he had forgotten. A lot of it was unnecessary. Sarah believed he just wanted to spend more time with Ahanu.

She glanced up when the footsteps ceased. The smile dropped from her face. Her blood ran cold. It was not a little boy standing there.

"Looks like I lost," he said, smile warping across his face, arms stretching over his chest. Sarah felt as though she was going to be ill. Her face went numb and her fingertips tingled. "By the way, getting her pregnant was just showing off."

"Matunaaga," Ahanu greeted. He wiped the blood from his hands and came out of his workshop. Sarah's eyes darted over to her husband, lips parting. Ahanu did not look particularly pleased to see him, but there was familiarity. "I did not think you'd come."

"I wouldn't have but I needed to see if it was true," the savage smiled. He looked at Sarah. She felt hate rage within her. Terrible, terrible pain. She saw her mother's dead eyes again. The remembered seeing the scythe sink into her father's soft throat.

"You," she whispered.

"Wawetseka, go get some of the salmon?" Ahanu asked. Sarah looked at him in disbelief. The savage sat down across from her at the fire, a smile on his lips.

"Hello, Wawetseka."

The name felt wrong on his lips. All of a sudden, she was disgusted by it. She never wanted to hear that name again.

"Wawetseka," Ahanu said.

"Why – Why is he here?" she asked. She had not seen him since she was brought to the village. Ahanu frowned.

"He is my brother."

"Brother," she whispered. She touched her belly. The child she carried within her had the same blood as the man that had murdered her parents. She got to her feet but did not move to the hut. She looked at Ahanu, face crumpled.

"He... you know what he did to me?" she asked, voice hoarse. His eyes softened and he stepped forward.

"Wawetseka," he murmured. He put on hand on her back, the other on her belly. "It was some months ago."

"Some months ago?" She parroted in disbelief.

"Matunaaga, please go. You've upset her and the baby..."

The savage stood. "I will be with Akando."

"I will be there shortly."

"Be there shortly?" she cried out.

"I will call her Mockingbird," Matunaaga laughed.

"He slaughtered my parents!"

"And you will never have to see him again," he reasoned. He pressed on as she continued to sputter. "Do you forget how many of your people I killed that day?" he reminded her gently. She did not hear.

"How can you be so unfeeling? He  _slaughtered_ my  _parents_." she yelled. She was shaking. Every muscle in her body trembled. Her heart raced and pounded. She kept her eyes wide. She couldn't close them. She'd see her parents. She'd see  _him._ Ahanu's  _brother._

"And I am sending him away, you'll never see him again. Sarah, the baby –"

"I hope it dies! I don't want your savage child!" She suddenly screeched. Ahanu stood in shock. He blinked once. "His blood runs through my child's veins. How could you not tell me that!"

"I thought you - I didn't think of it..."

The tears started and she shook her head. She turned to leave but Ahanu caught her.

"Sarah, the baby, please calm yourself –"

"Don't touch me!" she yelled. He let her hit him but he did block himself. He would do nothing that would put his child at risk. She whirled around to leave.

"Tell me where you plan to go at least," he called. It was a plea, but if not answered, he would my leave her be. He needed to make sure she was safe. She continued to walk and only after she realized he would not be letting her be did she yell out Alice.

"Sarah, I beg you," he pleaded as she left. "Do not hurt our baby."

She scowled and pushed him away. She was unaware he followed her to the gates but he slipped away once he knew she was within the walls.

She found Alice seated beside Megedagik, wrapped up tightly in a wolf pelt. She was smiling as she talked to him. Even the stoic man had a tilt to his lips. The children were playing tag.

Alice found her and the smile dropped from her face. Her tears turned to sobs and she crumpled against Alice. Her dear friend wrapped her arms around her, enveloping her in the wolf pelt.

"Sarah?" she asked in alarm.

"It's his brother!" she sobbed. Her shoulders shook. "He's his brother."

"Who, Sarah?"

"Ahanu! The man - they're brothers."

Alice said nothing. Sarah did not know if that was understanding or not. Megedagik was shushing the children away and had a hand on both women.

"Inside now," he said gently. "Some privacy."

Sarah was grateful. He guided them both inside. He had a brief conversation with Alice. Did they need him, should he get Talisa, he'd be right outside when they needed him.

They collapsed against the furs. Alice held Sarah, her head in her lap. She stroked her hair and spoke to her as she cried. Soon, Sarah tired herself out and she simply lay there, staring at the unlit fire. Alice's fingers felt nice in her hair.

"How did you bear it? Seeing him again?"

Sarah asked Alice.

"It was painful. As painful as the very day. It never goes away. It just becomes easier to bear."

"Seeing him and... he would have had me serve him dinner," she whispered, voice broken.

"I think we sometimes forget what they did to us," Alice murmured. "But how else can we be expected to survive? He treats you well, Sarah, I believe he truly loves you. I will not say you must accept the relation, or his indifference to it, nor am I saying you must come to terms with and forgive him any time soon, but I caution you against placing your hate for the brother onto your husband."

"He's not my husband," she murmured. He still asked every day. She always smiled and told him to ask again tomorrow.

 _Tomorrow you'll say yes,_ he would always respond with certainty. He had not asked her today yet. She doubted he would. She felt a pang go through her heart and she fought the urge to cry again. She bit her bottom lip and pressed her face into Alice's dress.

She clutched at her belly. She flattened her palm against the taut buckskin.

Then she felt it. A little flutter. A tiny little flutter.

 _That's our baby,_ she thought. Her first thought was Ahanu. She wanted him to feel it. She pressed her face further into Alice and let the waves of sob wash over her.

* * *

Sarah did not go to Talisa's. She could not go through another telling of what happened. She stayed at Megedagik's fire. He welcomed her and she found he was really not all that scary when he decided to like you. He kept the children from bothering her and Alice and Mansi made a delicious stew for dinner.

She saw Ahanu approached from a distance back. He was alone, arms wrapped around the Fox blanket he had made her. She swallowed thickly and looked down.

"Do you wish to see him?" Megedagik asked. "I can intercept him."

"That's is quite alright, thank you," Sarah smiled tiredly. Ahanu stopped before the fire and waited. He looked at everyone else before looking at Sarah.

"I didn't know if you'd want this to sleep with," he said. She only nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. She reached for it and he put it into her arms. "Can I sit with you a moment?"

His voice was soft and calm. His eyes were on the fox blanket. She nodded again. He lowered himself down. He glanced at the others around the fire before looking to Sarah.

"I am sorry. I did not think it would bother you so greatly."

"Seeing the man that murdered my parents –?" She began but broke off. Her throat tightened and she shook her head. She slapped her blue eyes shut and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "It is all I can say."

She nodded.

"You'll never see him again. I promise you that."

"You will see him?" she asked.

"He is my brother," he answered. She nodded and looked up to the sky.

"It's just... none of us are without blood on our hands –"

"Stop please. Please. I don't want to think of it," she whispered. He said nothing.

"You will stay here tonight?" he asked. She nodded. "Will you..."

He broke off and she looked at him. His eyes were wet and his skin was blotchy.

"Will you come home?"

He looked down. He was wringing his hands together.

"Yes," she whispered. "Just... not now."

He smiled but immediately the smile dropped from his face and he looked down.

"I didn't mean it... the baby," she said. He nodded and forced another smile.

"I will leave you," he said. She wanted to stop him and tell him to stay a bit longer, but her rogue stayed still and her hands rested like stone in her lap.

"Wawetseka?" he asked before standing. "Will you be my wife?"

"No," she said softly. "But ... ask me again tomorrow."

He looked at her, deep into her blue eyes.

"You'll say yes tomorrow," he promised softly. He picked up one of her hands and raised it to his lips. "Stay warm tonight," he added as he stood. "And drink the tea Talisa gave you. Cold remember," he said. He paused. He did not want to leave. He nodded and let out a breath.

"Megedagik. You will care for her?"

"I will," he answered. He nodded again. He just kept nodding. Finally, he turned and left, walking back toward the village walls. Despite her anger, her rage, her disgust, the feeling of betrayal, the painful, cruel remainder of what he had helped do to her people, all she wanted to do was chase after him.


	26. XXVI

He crouched down in the brush, a deep frown creasing his young face. He raised a hand and moved a branch from in front of his eyes. It was with learned skill that he kept himself from site, movements all but silent. The white invaders were seated around a fire, sharing a canteen and talking loudly. They had little understanding of their surroundings. Though the young warrior was certain that there was no one else within a two mile radius, a small raiding party could easily have swept in and killed the seven white men in moments. The metal men would have no idea what hit them.

They all had beards, some larger than others. He was close enough to see the pale eyes of one man, the corn colored hair of his beard. It gave him a queasy feeling. They had exploding spears in their hands, blades at their sides. There were not many of them, they would not be a threat to the village, but he wondered why they were still here. They should have crossed the waters again to their old lands.

Slowly, on lean but powerful legs, he retreated from the brush, as silent as a ghost. He crept back down the ridge to his camp. It was a well-hidden lean-to made of logs, brush, and bark nestled securely between a hulking bolder and a sharp drop from a rise in the earth just before the tributary leading to what the white men called the James.

He took his dagger and hatchet, stolen off a pair of hunters he had come across just a few weeks earlier. He moved back up the hill, circled around to the south, and slid back into his spot. The seven men were still seated around the fire. They laughed, chatting about something in that strange tongue he heard and come to like. It turned his stomach now, made his mouth go dry, his throat constrict. He tightened his hand around the handle of the hatchet. Other warriors, the Great Megedagik, he could kill them all in a single, swift attack. The young warrior gazing at the foreign invaders now might stand a chance against one. He steadied himself and waited.

He remained awake, long after the men had laid down for the night and the single sentry remained seated by the fire. He took a few deep breaths. He steadied himself. He'd never killed another man before. He remined himself they were white, they came into their lands and refused to leave. It had to be done.

He crept forward. The white men were scattered across the ground, sleeping soundly. His eyes were on the man at the fire. His heart thundered beneath his bronze chest and only grew louder as he approached the unsuspecting man with the shining hat above his head. If he did not do this correctly, he'd be dead in an instant.

Hand sweating, pulse throbbing, he came to stand behind the man. The moment the white invader's instincts alerted him to the presence behind him, and his reflective head inched to the right, the young warrior reached around and pressed the stone dagger to his throat. He pressed hard into the soft, pale flesh, jerking his hand hard to the right.

Not a sound left the man's lips. Vocal cords severed, he fell to his knees, hands gripping at his bloody throat in vain. Blood spurted from his fingers, and after a few seconds of desperate gurgling, he fell to the ground, lifeless. The young warrior turned, heart pounding, breath a bit heavy. One of the men rolled over with a grunt. He smacked his lips, cleared his throat, and snuggled deeply into his wool blanket. The young man felt regret and sadness. He swallowed it down. Megedagik felt no shame when he killed, and he'd killed so many.

He moved forward. He knelt before a sleeping man, pressed his hand to his mouth and leaned in with all his weight. He plunged his knife deeply into his lungs, the way his brother had shown him. He yanked it free and air rushed from his lungs through the hole in his chest. The young man, the blood of his first and second victim now on his hands, dragged the knife across his creamy white throat.

He moved on to the next, killing, silently, until the last of the seven men lay dead. Throats slit open, lungs punctured, eyes glazed over, faces blank. He scavenged through their belongings, put what he wished into the lean-to, and then one by one, till the sun came back up to kiss the sky, brought the bodies up over the swell of earth, dropped them onto his raft, and sent them sinking to the bottom of the river, weighted down with the shiny plates around their chest. He covered their tracks, kicked out the fire. It looked like they were never there.

He remained there for another three weeks before other white men arrived. He was fishing when he saw them. They were quiet, but easy to see. He watched them from the other side of the river. He sat calmly. Even if they saw him, they could not get to him. They walked along the bank of the river. One paused to throw rocks into the river. He was skipping them. The others had to call to him and he jogged forward. He found it hard to watch them. He did not like to see them act like human beings. He'd never had the chance to observe any people so closely outside of his tribe.

He thought once more of the blue eyes. He closed his own dark eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them again, waiting patiently for them to move on. The man paused and looked out across the water. The young warrior paused and stared. There was no way he would see him if he did not move. These white men were oblivious to their surroundings. His heart pounded in his chest, but he remained still, waiting patiently for him to move on. Finally, he did, but he looked back over his shoulder as he went.

The young Powhatan stood and disappeared into the brush. He walked along the edge. The white men's helmets glistened in the sun light. They were easy to follow. He kept to the opposite side of the river. It was easier that way. Safer. At night fall, once he had their location, he entered the water on his raft. He moved silently. The air was cold. His breath was visible, but his skin was hot.

When he walked up the bank, he found them almost immediately. They had the fire burning. They were laughing loudly. Louder than the group a few weeks before. He settled by a tree, close by, but hidden in the brush. He listened to their laughs for hours.

Eventually, one by one, they went to sleep. Soon, only the one man remained, seated by the fire, exploding spear across his lap. The young man slowly extracted himself from the brush. He plunged his knife into the soft fleshly neck. He gargled. It was louder than before, but just as the man beside them began to stir, the dead man fell limp and the warrior was able to slide the blade into the soft flesh between his ribs. A knife the head, and no more movement. He rolled them all over when he was finished. He did not want to see their faces.

He did away with the bodies, took what he wanted, and an hour before sunrise, he was back on the raft on his way back cross the river to his little home. He settled in for the night. He drank what was left from the white men's canteens. He enjoyed the drink. It helped him sleep without seeing their eyes in his dream. Always bright blue eyes.

He lived off of fish. He was a strong fisherman, though as the days passed, he struggled to become a better hunter. His traps got smaller animals. Enough to get him through, but never enough for a meal. Always thin, he lost even more weight, but now, his muscles were more pronounced.

He wandered down to the tributary. He had a little box of rocks beneath the frigid water to keep fish he had captured alive longer. Kept them fresh. He sighed as he grabbed the last fish and walked back to his hut. He ate the whole thing. He didn't want to save it. He was starving.

Once finished, he ventured back toward the fort. They were horrible butchers, but fine hunters. When they didn't or couldn't take the whole animals back, they left the hides, meat, and organs within the rotting corpse. He'd enjoyed a number of fine meals thanks to lazy white men. He also liked to keep an eye on the fort.

There had been movement, especially on the southern wall. He'd seen their giant boats come in. He watched them bring in crates upon crates of food and supplies.

Walking in through the trees, he looked for signs of animal life. He found none. His bow was slung over his back, his hatchet and dagger at the side.

When the soldier came into his view, his heart stopped. Sweaty hands and pounding heart, he stared at the white man, metal chested, metal hat on his head, exploding spear in hand. The white man looked just as frightened as the warrior. His eyes wide, lips parted.

The warrior stared back. He looked at the exploding spear. The man raised it. He was shaking. He yelled. The Powhatan warrior crouched down. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head. Why wasn't he making the spear explode? A lack of magic…. Something wasn't right.

The youth sprinted forward, a cry leaving his lips. He pulled the hatchet back, held the dagger up over his head. The man pulled the spear back without an explosion and swung it. The hatchet met the spear. It was strong. The blade sunk in deeply. The youth tried to pull it free, but it held true.

He kicked out a foot and hit the white man hard in the knee. A foreign curse escaped the man and he tried to jerk away from the kick. They struggled, one trying to retrieve his spear, the other his hatchet. Unfortunately for the white invader, the youth remembered the blade in his hand. He brought it fourth, aiming to plunge it deeply into the man's chest. It ricocheted off the plate and slid downward. The force was enough to send the invader stumbling backward.

The youth was fast. He struck out again, this time shielding his blade from the hard material, and landed a blow to the man's hairy jaw. The man was larger though, and he soon realized this. With a deep bellow he pushed forward, raising the spear high and forcing it beneath the youth's chin.

He slammed into a tree and his oxygen was cut off. The force of the gun was painful and arresting. He struggled to fight for air against the strength of the exploding spear. He was sure this was it. His first real fight and he'd meet his end at the hands of his white devil.

The man's teeth were rotten, bared angrily from beneath a mess of hair. His eyes were large, dark, and wild. He closed his eyes, let out a yell, and reared up both legs. Lean and agile, he got his feet up to the man's gut and pushed with all his might. He pushed himself back against the tree, let out the last of his air in another shout, and sent the man stumbling backward. He yanked at his hatchet, angling the spear closer, and hacked at the man's fingers with his knife. Even wearing thick leather gloves, the blade went deep enough. The man cried out and a hand left the spear.

The youth kicked at his knee again and ripped the spear from his other hand. He dropped the spear with his hatchet and pressed forward toward the dazed man. These white men were smart, wearing these strange plates, but they could not move fast enough in such close quarters. The youth had to focus but he soon had the knife into the soft neck of the man before him. It slid downward, slicing through flesh, and sunk deeply into the man's shoulder, just beneath the metal plate.

The man stumbled and the youth yanked the blade free. It grated against the plate. The man gurgled. Blood came spurting from the plate. The youth felt a rush of excitement. This was what the others had spoken of. Finally, his mother and father's influence could not keep him from battle. The man's eyes widened, the fearful resignation of impending death shining in his eyes.

He raised a hand feebly. The youth acted again, jabbing the blade deep into the man's unprotected thigh. He remembered his uncle telling him. The thigh could be just as deadly as the throat. He jabbed again at the thigh blindly, in a frenzy. The flesh became a mushy, pulpy mess beneath the blade. The man was reaching for his bloody throat.

The young warrior looked down at him. He stopped the assault on the leg. The man gurgled something. He knew the word. He'd heard it before. He saw blue eyes again and forced them from his mind.

"Please."

The youth reached out and under the plate, where the man's gloved hands were reaching. Around his neck was a cord of string. He pulled it from beneath the man's clothing. Attached was a little block of wood. The man reached for it. He was trying to speak, gurgling. The youth placed the wood into his hand.

Dark eyes looked down into dark eyes. One set victorious, the other terrified. The warrior felt a twinge of regret, of sadness. He ignored the feeling, pushed it down, and thought of the great warriors from home. They did not feel shame or sadness upon a victory. Only pride.

He moved away to the other side of the man. He took the metal hat from his head and placed it to the side. The man has a mane of thick brown hair. Easy to grab onto. Still gurgling, the man moaned as his head was lifted. The youth ignored the gnawing in his chest. He lifted the head and made a skillful incision on the side of his scalp. One would not have known it was his first. He sliced the other side of the head. Then the back. Blood was oozing from the incisions. The man's moans were growing quiet. His right thigh was soaked with blood. His chest moved up and down slowly.

He sawed at the scalp until it came free. He examined it closely. Stared at the red, bloody mess on top of the man's scalp. He was quiet now. His chest no longer rose and fell.

Shouts came from the distance. The Powhatan jerked his head to the side to listen. Not far off. He collected his things, grabbed the spear, hatchet still attached. He put the metal hat on his head. He took the bloody gloves from his hands. He took a sack from over his shoulder. He took the time to wrap the cord of string and the oddly shaped block of wood back around the man's bare hand. He had clutched it in the hour of death. The youth feared the spirits too greatly to take that from him now.

He ran off into the forest. He was not pursued. The shouts faded off into the distance, and before night fell, he was home with his prizes. It was not the food he had hoped for, but he would make due. He began the cooking of his fish and took to examining his new things.

He managed to jerk the hatched from the spear with ease. Without two men fighting over it, it was not hard to remove. The spear was like nothing he had seen before. Long, thick, heavy. The end was rounded and hollow. A deep frown turned his face downward as he tried to make sense of it, but it was to no avail. He played with the metal appendages at the middle. Frustrated and perplexed, he placed it to the side.

He examined the contents of the sack. Found a little tube and popped the cork off. He emptied the substance into his hand. He smelled it, licked it, and sputtered. Not something to eat. Unsure what the substance could be, but finding no use for it, he tossed it toward the fire. He heard a sudden torrent of pops, the flames exploded before him, and he went stumbling backwards over his stump. The fish went aflame and he peered back from behind the stump with wide, terrified eyes.

The powder on his hand was his next subject to examine with wide eyes. He stared at it a moment before wiping it off as fast as he could on a nearby tree. He found another tube of it but kept away from it. That was not something he understood or hoped to trifle with in that moment. Instead, he focused on preparing the scalp. His first real kill. The others he had not counted. While not shameful in the slightest, those he had killed had not had the opportunity to fight back. It was not a fair fight between two warriors. He scraped it proudly. Prepared a hoop to stretch it across, and placed it before the fire. What a head of hair as well. He wished he could show his mother. She would be proud. She'd see there was now no reason to keep him from manhood.

He took to sharpening his blade as the scalp dried. Tears pricked at his eyes as he thought of his mother. That painful, longing, hollow feeling returned to his chest. He let himself feel it a short while, but once again pushed it from his mind. He could not return home yet. Not until he had made amends.

After eating, he gazed up at the stars a while. They were beautiful. Smattering the dark, clear sky. He could not see the moon from where he was but its light came shining through the trees to his left. He ran a hand through his hair. His eyes found his blade beside him.

He raised it to his scalp. No water or oil, he scraped it across the skin. It was painful, he bled, but hair fell to the ground. He grit his teeth and pressed on. He did not stop until every scrap of hair was gone from his head and on the floor beside him.

With a similar resolve, he took the blade and pressed it to his chest. He dragged it slowly, leaving a single line of blood in its wake.

One real kill. He twirled the knife in his hand. His scalp burned and his chest ached, but he felt stronger than he ever had before in life. He looked up, gazing back up into the night sky. He took a deep breath of the crisp night air. He couldn't feel the cold. He felt good. Almost happy. With a smile he reached for the metal hat. He put it on his head. It felt nice against his burning scalp. He reached for the exploding spear one more time and made new attempts to figure out the strange device.

* * *

* * *

Lawrence fell to his knees before the mutilated body.

"Oh, Bart," he breathed. He hovered a hand over the bloody skull. He looked at the shredded flesh of his thigh. Muscle and fatty globules bubbling up from beneath the mangled flesh.

"Fucking animals," Philip barked. He and the others began to run off toward the forest.

"Stop!" Lawrence ordered. They fell silent and turned back to face him, waiting. "We don't know how many, where, or how skilled. We go back to the fort. Give Bart a proper burial. Have a service."

"Have a service! No! We go after those bastards and kill every last one of them," Philip protested. He was shaking. Bart was his cousin.

"Two hunting parties vanished! Bart slaughtered! Now so close to the fort? We can't afford to lose anymore men running off after a savage raiding party. And so close to the fort? No. We go back and talk to Graves."

"But –"

"He's right."

All protests fell silent. Edward Clarke stepped up to the edge of the body. He wore a thick hat of animal fur upon his scalped head. He looked like a different man. His nose was warped and bigger, his cheeks flatter, his eyes a different shape.

"They came upon us like a crack of lightening. Like a wave in the ocean, strong and swift enough to send the ship into the sea. We go back to the fort."

"Coward," Lewis spat onto the ground. Edward Clarke removed the hat from his head. His eyes were smoldering with hardly contained rage. Lawrence looked away. Philip actually turned around. Lewis just stared.

"If you knew me before, you would not say such things," he said, deadly calm. Lewis swallowed, severe Adam's apple bobbing erratically.

"We go back," Philip said. He walked back to the body. "We talk to Graves."

Edward put the hat back on his head and bent down to lift up the body. Philip reached down, Lawrence helped, and soon Lewis was joining them.

A crowed gathered as they arrived. Captain Graves was there, arms crossed over a broad chest, perfectly manicured goatee pulled downward in a severe frown.

The cry from the woman was ear shattering and heartbreaking. She came stumbling through the crowed. Philip tried to stop her. He reached out and grabbed her arm but she wrenched free.

"Barty! My Bart!" she wailed. Her belly was swollen with child. It would be a winter child. Born into the harshest months of an unforgiving land, and now, without a father. "My sweet Bart! No!"

"You mustn't look, Mrs." a kind man said gently.

"Mrs. Smythe," Captain Graves said gently. She knelt before the body and wept. Captain Graves crouched down beside her, a hand on her back. "Mrs. Smythe, accompany the body to the store house with us. You may be alone with him."

She nodded and stood with Captain Graves. She leaned against him. He held her gallantly, allowing her to walk beside the body. She helped carry him, hand on his boot. Lawrence waited outside with his crew. All were silent. The only sound that could be heard was the newly made widow's wailing.

Near to an hour later, Captain Graves left the store house, face grim. He need only look Lawrence in the eye and all fell in line. They followed him to the Governor's house. The governor's wife greeted them with the best smile she could muster and poured them all a cup of beer. Once finished, she left the dining room and let the men speak alone.

"So close to the fort," Captain Graves murmured. He was examining the grooves in the long wooden table. "Did you see any of them?"

"We came upon him already dead. No sign of the savages."

"Not a sign? A sound?"

"None, Sir," Lawrence answered. He nodded gravely and rubbed a hand over his face.

"We suspend excursions until the end of winter and we get more men."

"What – we – Captain, the supplies are a Godsend, but we need to hunt. We need hunting –"

"It's true, Sir, we won't make it through the winter without hunting parties," Lawrence said. Captain Graves examined his cup of beer. He had not touched it.

"Then I want patrol numbers doubled. No group goes out with less than seven men. And no one goes further than a mile from the walls."

"A mile!" the Governor sputtered.

"Three patrols dead!" Captain Graves screamed, pounding the table hard. "A man murdered and scalped three hundred yards from the fort walls!"

"We live on a swamp!" the Governor yelled. "There's nothing here to eat!"

"What would you have me do!" Graves shouted back. "I can't loose anymore men! And if I send out enough to deal with the threat, I leave the fort vulnerable and I cannot lose the fort, I cannot lose Jamestown."

"The others had no idea there was danger. Bart ran off ahead against my orders to scout the area. Send out a small, but experienced troop, and we'll take care of the threat. We'll take Renshaw. He knows these savages," Lawrence pressed.

"And he says they never go out in larger groups than five or six for raiding parties."

"That was the number that overcame us," Edward said with little emotion. "We were sloppy. If we went out, prepared, ready –"

"And then they just keep sending out more," Philips disagreed. "I agree, we bunker down for the winter."

"I need to speak to Captain Elliot, Captain Thatcher , John Sturridge, and John Tyndall," Graves said abruptly. His tone was clear. Everyone out and those men listed were to be sent for at once.

Everyone but the governor stood and made to leave.

"Dansby, stay," Graves said, took a sip of beer, and then added, "Please."

Lawrence glanced at the others, but retook his seat without a word. He expected a reprisal for losing Bart. He was in charge of the patrol when he decided to venture off on his own. If Lawrence had been more aware, had not been so consumed with thoughts of his wife and son, he would have noticed Bart sooner and might have saved the man's life. He was alone with the governor and the Captain for a few minutes. The Captain leaned forward and spoke softly, but it was not in reprisal.

"If I send you out there, you may go as far as your homestead, but you must assure me I can trust that you will follow orders and not go off looking for your wife and child."

"You have my word," Lawrence vowed solemnly, though his heart seized with delight. "I vow it to the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, I will follow all orders given."

Graves nodded and leaned back.

"They nearly decimate us and still they come," Graves murmured, shaking his head. "I was hoping some sort of peace might come from this wild land. I feel that hope might elude us."

"Peace ceased to be a hope the moment they came into our homes and slaughtered our wives and children, Sir Roland. No man living in this fort would accept peace now," Lawrence added respectfully. Graves nodded slowly. Captain Thatcher walked in, leathery skin red, lips chapped, a small, but angry looking scar on his chin. He had been a rather successful fisherman before signing on with the Company. Now he was one of the toughest men anyone could meet. Though weather beaten and gruff, with a nose too small and a chin too big, he was tall and in fine form, a gentlemen to the ladies, and a good Christian. He hadn't lost anyone in the fight save some cousins he had seen twice, one of which he had designs on marrying. The way he lamented her loss, one might have thought they'd married life times ago. By all accounts, she had been young and beautiful.

"John," Graves greeted. Thatcher grunted and spit out a wad of black goo onto the floor. The Governors wife had just entered with a jug of hot mead for everyone. The look she gave put the fear of life into the three men in the room. Thatcher bent down and wiped it up with a handkerchief before taking his seat at the table.

"How many men do you think it would take the defend the fort from a full assault?" Graves asked just as John Sturridge entered the home. He looked around in some wonder at the Governor's dining room. He thanked the Mrs. for the cup of mead, and sat down silently. Another man of a modest upbringing that had earned the Captain's trust. He'd lost a sister and his parents in the massacre. He was a devout Catholic, but no one held that too much against him. He still went to church every Sunday, and that was all one could ask in a place like this. He was about thirty, built like an ox, and his eyes were always wide and wet.

"Governor," he greeted respectfully. "Captain, Captain, Larry."

"Depends on who's attacking and how many. A savage attack? I'd say we could make do with twenty if we see 'em coming. They have a lot of open field to cross before they get to the walls, and we got cannon and powder."

"What about you, Thatcher?"

"Bout the same, I'd guess. They won't attack the fort. These savages stick to the woods."

John Tyndall entered with Captain Elliot. Tyndall had lived in Henricus. He was a businessman, knew a fair number of important Company men back in London, but he could fight too, and had a mind for strategy. His wife, Frances, had been missing since the slaughter.

"This business with the forager has me concerned. So close to the walls and almost into the winter months. I think –"

"Bart Smythe, Sir," Lawrence interrupted. Graves blinked.

"I am sorry?"

"His name. Bartholomew Smythe. Bart."

"Yes, forgive me," Graves forced a smile though it was one of discomfort, not scorn. "I know you were friends."

Lawrence nodded and Graves continued the meeting.

"I want to send out a patrol or two to try and find the band responsible and to see if there is any sign of the hunting parties that have no returned. That was twelve men we lost. We're hemorrhaging and it needs to stop. Tyndall, Thatcher , you will both lead a patrol. Tyndall, take Dansby, I've told him he can go to Martin's Husband to visit his homestead and look for anymore signs of his wife and child. That's as far as you go and remember the purpose of this excursion. I want every single one of you to come back alive and in one piece. Understood?"

Tyndall and Lawrence demonstrated their assent. Graves looked to Thatcher and gave his instruction. He was to take Sturridge. Sturridge, keep a sharp eye,  _any_ sign of significant numbers, you return to the fort. Yes?"

"Yes," Sturridge answered. Graves rubbed his chin and nodded. He had the beginnings of a headache forming. Rest today, head out tomorrow at dawn."

"Sir, but sir," Sturridge interjected. "Tomorrow's the Lord's day, sir."

Graves closed his eyes and sighed.

"The day after tomorrow, then," he said. "No one leaves the walls until then. Captain Elliot, may I speak to you about our wall defenses?"

Everyone but Elliot stood and left the Governor's home.

"Dansby," Tyndall said as they exited the home. Lawrence paused and looked at him but said nothing. His mind was busy. "We circle up. Go out heading North, cut over west, through Martin's Hundred, back down South East?"

Lawrence considered nodded, That would give him a lot of opportunity to search for his wife and child.

"If we find something," Tyndall began and Lawrence shook his head and began to walk away. He did not want to hear that right now. Tyndall hurried after him and turned him around with a firm hand on the elbow. "If you're going out there with me I need to know we're on the same page." Lawrence stopped to listen. Tyndall was right. He owed him that. "If we find something, which you tell me how to direct my prayers and I will say them for you, but if we find something, we leave them in a safe place and go back for them  _afterward._ We're going out for one purpose. We can bring them back and see them buried once we know it's safe."

"They'll be nothing but bones," Lawrence spoke through a tightened throat. "If we find them, I carry them back in my roll. I won't… I won't leave them again."

His voice broke and he had to turn to keep himself composed. Tyndall looked down.

"Very good then," Tyndall relented softly. "God be with you, Dansby," he said in farewell and walked toward the armory. Lawrence remained where he was. He stared out in the direction of the sea, but he could see nothing by mud, wood, and smoke.

"Oh, Alice," he whispered. "Forgive me, my love."

His heart ached. It was constant. He looked up to the sky and said his prayer. He prayed he'd find nothing. Nothing at all. He was weak. A selfish, weak man, for he hoped and prayed with every fiber of his being, no matter the horror it might mean for his wife, that she lived and one day he might have her home with him, that he might feel her soft body wrapped safely in his arms once more.

He composed himself and walked toward the armory. He found Tyndall there, going through the powder and munitions with Thatcher and Clarke. They greeted him with warm nods of the head.

"Thatcher," he said. The hardened man looked at him with his dark eyes. "Another lesson?"

Thatcher slapped his knees and pushed himself up to his feet with a groan.

"Sure thing, Master Dansby. And no fear," Thatcher said, stopping in front of him and patting Lawrence on the face with affection, but hard slaps to the cheek. "We'll have you scalping injuns in no time at all."

He cackled and grabbed his dagger and sword. Lawrence followed him to the courtyard where Thatcher taught those inexperienced men how to fight in close quarters, a small, hopeful smile coming to his face.


	27. XXVII

XXVII

Sarah glanced at Ahanu from her spot at the fire. She jabbed at a log with her stick, sending the dry wood falling to the side with an eruption of sparks. It drew his attention but only for a moment. He went back to the skinning of the animal. He had carried it home last night with his brother.

"Come here, Mocking Bird," Matunaaga had called to her. "Come look at this fine beast."

She had stood from the fire and gone back into the lodge. It was Alice that convinced her to return to Ahanu before Matunaaga left. Though in the days since Sarah left, Ahanu had visited her at Talisa's hut and at Megedagik's fire, he had not asked her to come back. He expressed his hope that she would return soon, he'd place whatever gift he brought that day, asked her to be his wife, and went on his way.

"He bears it greatly," Alice observed one day. She had not even looked up from the piece of fur she was working with. Sarah was not sure exactly what it was she was trying to do with the material, but she was doing it poorly. "His patience is to be commended."

Alice said it with no judgement; it was purely an observation. It struck Sarah deeply. It must have been shameful for him. It did nothing to dampen her anger, nor did it lessen her hatred, but it added a furiously nagging twinge of guilt that, wife or not, she had turned her back on her responsibilities. And somewhere, buried far beneath the anger, hidden inside her hatred, and peaking out from around that twinge of guilt, she felt a numbing sense of longing every time she watched him walk away. How long might it take before he decided he wanted a wife that actually wished to be his wife, or at the very least, a wife that lived under the same roof with him. And then where would she be. Husbandless, a burden to Talisa and Samoset, or to Alice and Megedagik, a new born baby, alone.

The look on his face when she and Alice walked into the clearing, Akando kindly escorting him, made her momentarily forget her anger. But as he came walking toward her anxiously, smile plastered across his face, her eyes found the familiar smiling face at the fire, and she was reminded once more of her hatred. Alice glared, offered her silent support with a gentle touch to the elbow.

"You've come home?" he asked. She nodded, hugging the fox pelt closer to her.

"I uh," he glanced over his shoulder. "I didn't think you'd be back."

"It's fine," she said a bit too curtly. "I will go remake my spot. Alice."

Akando plopped himself down by the fire and Alice followed her into the lodge. They pulled the flap to the side and did not leave until Megedagik came searching for Alice around sunset.

That night Sarah had felt odd. She wanted to be back inside the walls with Talisa or Alice. She felt lonely, listening to the group of savages sit by the fire, laughing and eating and telling stories.

She curled up in her spot, hugging her knees to her chest and biting back tears. She wondered if Ahanu might walk her back to Alice's, but she did not think she could ask without beginning to cry, and she would not cry in front of that man. She refused.

Ahanu came in once with a wooden bowl of meat. He put it down beside her and gently touched her shoulder. "Are you crying?" he asked her gently. She shook her head, forehead still pressed her knees.

"I just… miss my mama and papa," she said. He withdrew his hand. He left the hut and she once again felt more alone than she ever had in her life. But he returned a few moments later and settling in beside her, wrapping her in his arms and holding her. Initially, she remained stiff, wanting to hurt him as much as he had hurt her, but the thought of pushing him away now hurt too much. She leaned into him but tried to muffle her cries in his chest. She did not want his brother to hear.

She didn't remember falling asleep, but when she woke up she was wrapped in her fox pelt, Ahanu lying down beside her, gently running a hand over her belly. "Will you be my wife, Wawetseka?" he whispered with a tiny smile. She shook her head, gave a tiny smile, and told him, "ask me again tomorrow."

In the days that followed he would leave for the day, visit with his brother and friends and return to her in the evening. Occasionally, when she went into the village to spend time with Alice, she would return to find Matunaaga present. She did not blame Ahanu. He was only ever there when she was gone for more than a few hours at a time. The first time he came into the camp while she was present, it was carrying in the giant buck Ahanu was skinning now. She had glared at him.

_Come here, Mocking Bird, come look at this fine beast._

She jabbed at the log again.

"I think I will eat dinner with Alice tonight. Someone will walk me back. Or I'll stay there."

Ahanu said nothing. For a moment she thought he had either not heard her or was simply going to ignore her. He spoke after what felt like an incredible amount of time later.

"I'd rather you stayed, but you may do what you want," he answered. He paused and then continued. "This is a fine take," he motioned to the buck. "It…"

He said nothing and went back to butchering.

"It is unfair that you would expect me to eat with that man," she said. Ahanu said nothing again.

"It makes me look weak," he finally said. He slapped down a hunk of meat.

"That's why I came back," she said and then muttered, "I am married to you not him."

He continued butchering the animals. Once it was prepared he came and sat down beside her.

"He's leaving tomorrow," he said, wringing his hands in front of him, forearms resting on his knees. "And then… things can go back to how they were." He looked at her and forced a smile. "And tonight, you can stay with Alice or Talisa if that is what you want. I will walk you there myself."

She smiled and reached out to touch his hand. She looked into his eyes. They were kind eyes. Dark, the potential to be so frightful. Not the eyes of a killer, but that was what she knew him to be. She gave a tiny lift to her lips.

"The name…" he said, looking back at the flames. "Thomas if a boy. If a girl…?"

"Elizabeth," she said.

"Elizabeth," he said, though the crinkle of his nose told her he was not quite fond of that name. "And that will be their personal name. But no one else can know. For the baby."

"I understand," she said softly and touched her growing belly. She could only imagine the torment if she gave the baby a savage name and raised it in English society.

"I love you, Wawetseka," he said softly. He wrapped her hand in his. "I would never purposefully try to cause you pain."

She looked at her small white hand wrapped in his large bronze ones. She felt the weight of his admission. Her eyes closed and she leaned against him. She pressed her face to his shoulder. He smelled like dirt, morning dew, smoke and blood. It was so odd, how comforting she found that smell now. She leaned up and placed a kiss to his cheek.

"I'm going to walk to Alice's now," she told him. She took her hands from his and pushed herself up with some aid from his shoulder. "I will be fine to walk on my own," she added. He said nothing. He saw her off with a tiny smile.

She stopped to see Talisa first. Spending time with Sarah lifted her spirits. She had come to terms with the fact that Milap was gone, but she still mourned. She spent quite a while with Talisa. She asked if she could stay there tonight. Talisa met the news with excitement.

Sarah went to spend some time with Alice. She was surprised to arrive and find that Aiyana had left. Alice was in a fine mood. She looked a bit pale, her skin slightly clammy, but her illness appeared to have passed fully. The children were quite thrilled to have Alice back.

Megedagik was speaking to a number of friends around the fire. Sarah had never seen them before and they were reacted to her hair and eyes with surprise.

"They are from a tribe some miles away," Alice explained after they finally released her hair. "They are just passing through. Will you be staying here tonight? I do not know if we have the room."

"I will stay with Talisa," Sarah answered. "She has been so troubled since Milap's passing. Samoset tells me her spirits are raised some when I am present."

"Such a tragedy. And to not have a single trace. Megedagik tells me so often how well acquainted they ae with nature, and from my observations I have always found it so. It seems odd he would fall into the water and drown. The water was not so violent.

"I pray for his health daily. He did not like me so, and I did not like him, but I pray daily he will return. For Talisa mostly, though I find I miss him."

"I will add him to my prayers then, and God will have twice the hearing," Alice smiled and reached out to touch her hand.

"Maskaanna," Megedagik called. "Bring me the blackened tobacco."

Sarah watched Alice rise from her spot and move into the lodge. She returned with a little jar and stooped by Megedagik's side to give it to him. She made to retreat, but he grabbed her wrist and spoke softly to her. He put a kiss to her mouth. It did not seem unwelcome by her dear friend, and as Alice stood, the warrior's eyes lingered after her.

Sarah turned her gaze downward. Alice picked up her little swatch of fur. In silence, both women returned to their tasks.

 

* * *

"Maskaanna, tell us of your battle," one of the strangers called to her as she returned with boiling water from the lodge. Sarah had departed somewhat downtrodden. Alice had asked her to linger a short while longer, but she wanted to go help Talisa make dinner.

"It was no great battle," she said, crouching down to pour the tea. She did not want to talk about it. It irritated the splinter still wedged deeply in her heart. The splinter pulsed, sending a terrible tremor of pain throughout her entire body.

"They say she is a witch," another said. "Are you a witch, Maskaanna?"

"I am no witch," she said, giving a sour but playful smile, though her heart seized, an she could not help but see the bloody stain on her sons, blond hair.

"The Maskaanna fought bravely to save her child, that is true, but the monster of a man Matchitehlew, a coward and twisted man, murdered the child only after the battle ended," Megedagik said. He took hold of her elbow and tugged her backward. She sat beside him on the fur. "That is all that need be said."

His friends obeyed and she turned her head to give a tiny smile. He returned the smile with a tiny smile of his own. She reached out to take the bowl of dried squash. She presented it up to him. He took a bit of squash and she put it back down by the fire.

When they went to bed that night, the children slept on their side of the lodge. The visitors took the other side of the lodge. They went to bed early. They would be leaving early in the morning. Alice was glad of it. Though they were kind enough, she found them strange, and preferred her home to consist of only the children and Megedagik.

She rolled over to look at him, Ahote stretched out between them, a leg free some the furs, his arm out over his head. Mansi was to her other side, sleeping soundly.

"Tomorrow, I am going to check my traps," he told her. "I will leave early in the morning."

She nodded. She reached out and touched the earring in his lobe.

"She is truly gone?" Alice asked.

"Left the village this morning with a fine warrior from a neighboring village."

She removed her hand from his earring.

"I fear a nightmare tonight," she whispered. He looked back at her, dark eyes boring into her. Slowly, he slid from his furs and moved to the fire. One of the guests stirred, opened an eye to discover the source of the sound, and then rolled back over and went to sleep. Megedagik said nothing as he boiled the water and prepared the tea for her.

He came away from the fire and settled back into his furs before he handed it to her.

"If I could spend my sleeping hours awake in your dreams, fighting away all that disturbs you, I would, and never rest again," he told her. She drank the rest of her tea in silence. He settled down and stared up at the ceiling, a hand on his chest, thumb tapping thoughtfully.

She missed being close to him. She liked being in his arms. She wanted to say something to him but she did not know what to say. She laid down her head and admired his profile. Such odd features, high-brow, prominent cheekbones, large nose. She liked the look of it. She searched her brain for something to say but could find nothing.

He continued to tap his thumb, staring up at the ceiling. She opened her mouth. No words came forth. He turned his head. His eyes found hers. He stared back. A small little came to his lips and his gaze softened. He rolled onto his side. He reached out and touched her cheek. She smiled softly.

"Good night," she whispered as he lowered his hand. That would have to be enough for now.

"Good night," he answered. She closed her eyes. Only moments later, her eyes fluttered open. His eyes were closed, looking for sleep. She did not close her eyes until the tea compelled her to sleep.

* * *

"What news have you heard?" Megedagik asked his friends as they moved down the path toward the river bank they were to cross on their way home.

"Very little," Chaksa answered. "We've heard tell she's a witch. Seeing her, I now think it so."

The others chuckled. Megedagik only offered a tight smile.

"No word on Matchitehlew?"

"Only that he failed in battle, his new name, and that he has not returned to his home village."

"Word on his location?"

"None, Megedagik."

He nodded thoughtfully. They arrived at the river and stopped.

"If you hear any talk that my wife is in danger, you will make it known to me?" he asked and his friend nodded gravely.

"I will send my fastest messenger."

"Thank you, my friend," he said and clapped him on the shoulder. He clasped wrists with the others. He bid they stay warm and dry on their journey and walked back home. He settled down at the fire outside, draping a pelt over his shoulders. Ahote was out with friends. The Maskaanna and Mansi were looking at the fur he had brought her. It amused him, that a grown woman would be asking a child for help.

He chuckled as he sat down.

"Do white women not make clothing?"

"We do," she answered. "But I have never worked with such troublesome material."

She let out a cry and tossed it down. He laughed and beckoned her closer.

"Come here, troublesome woman. What do you want to make?"

She moved to sit beside him. She settled down beside him. Mansi came to sit on the other side of him. He had not found himself so content in a long time.

"I wish to make a shirt for the baby. This is a fine pelt. It will be a good gift once the baby comes."

"You would be better suited to make a blanket from it."

He laughed as she swung around with too flattened hands and smacked him on the shoulders. She picked up the furs.

"I can make this for you," he offered. "To have a woman that cannot make a shirt."

He clicked his tongue.

She slapped him again. He moved away from her blows before straightening up.

"I will make it," she said with determination. "But you will show me how."

His chest filled with affection for her and he leaned forward. He examined the fur.

"I brought this beast back to you, and if you wish to bestow it upon another I will not protest. It is a fine pelt."

He explained to her the first few steps to make and settled back. She asked a few questions, asked him to hep her manipulate the pelt, but she was independent, determined, and spent nearly an hour doing what should have taken her minutes, but as he examined it at her request, he found it perfectly done. The soft smile of pride that came to her face filled him with love, and as he looked down to find her misshapen nails work carefully along the stitches, he felt such contentment and affection like he never had before.

He leaned back and draped an arm around his little girl, tugging her close. Mansi smiled happily and looked up at her father. Megedagik smiled back and leaned down to place a kiss to the top of her head.

"Maskaanna," he spoke. "You must hold the flap with your thumb. Are you sure you don't want me to make it for your?"

His laugh was boisterous as she leaned forward and placed a few mightier smacks to his shoulders and chest. When he put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer and placing a kiss of affection to her pale forehead, she did not protest, and if he dare hope, leaned even closer into him.

* * *

Megedagik walked down the path toward the hut with grim determination in mind. No better a gift of proposal than the scalp of the man that killed her child. He'd bring her his scalp, his teeth, his weapons and clothing.

He found the young warrior at the fire, staring at the flames with a glazed over and forlorn look. He looked up in surprise as Megedagik stepped into the clearing. He raised a hand to his lips.

"Quiet, please," he said, running up to him. "Wawetseka is sleeping."

"I will be brief."

Askuweteau nodded and waited.

"I've heard some rumors that Matchitehlew has threatened vengeange against my woman," he paused, thinking of the Maskaanna and her gratitude when he brought her his scalp. He decided to be honest with the young warrior. "And I can think of no better offer for marriage than to bring her his scalp."

He felt in no way it made him weak. The Maskaanna was different. She was fierce, independent, she had a reputation for strength and was well respected. The need for added proof of his worth was no shame.

"I seek your aid," he finished his proposal. Askuweteau's lips parted. He'd be well within the upper levels of society had his father not brought his lineage such indelible shame. Megedagik would enjoy elevating him to the level he should have possessed years ago. "Will you help me?"

"Without a thought, Megedagik. I give you my aid."

"I thank you," he said. "You will say nothing to either woman. Yours nor mine. We go for hunts. Nothing is said, until I return with his bloody scalp in my hand."

"I promise you," he said gravely.

"We leave tomorrow. The Pale One will stay with the Maskaanna while we're gone."

"That will please her," Askuweteau said with some pain in his eyes.

"Tomorrow at dawn. We start to north."

The young warrior nodded.

"I will tell Wawetseka. My wife."

Megedagik gave a nod. He said nothing else and walked away again. He would have to tell the Maskanna he would be leaving at dawn. He hoped to see some concern in her eyes when he told her.

* * *

Alice carried the basket out the front door and pinned the little boy with a look so bone chilling that even Megedagik paused and lowered his pipe from his lips. Mansi waited happily, a spiteful little smile on her lips, and waited for the boy to be yelled at. But the white woman need not say a word. The boy dropped the club and scrambled back to the fire.

The boy was being punished. It was not something that he would have punished a child for, but the Maskaanna had been so furious that Megedagik let her reprimand the boy.

Megedagik has spoken to him separately, instilling within him that it was not his success in the fight he was being punished for, but the taking of the older boy's items. Megedagik understood her aversion to the theft, but he needed the boy to understand defending oneself and most importantly one's sister, was a noble and important goal.

That his little boy had come out victorious, filled him with pride and he told the boy as much. He decided to speak to the Maskaanna about it later that night after the children had to sleep and after he had his satisfaction with. He had made the mistake of indicating to her he would not force himself on her. Now she withheld sex regularly to get what she desired or to demonstrate her displeasure.

She sat down beside him and took out the pelt he had brought home for her. She wanted to make something out of it for the baby. When he had suggested a blanket, she had not been amused. He chuckled all the same and suggested a warm shirt. Babies did not need clothes unless it was cold, so something warm would do them good.

"Cut there," he instructed and she obeyed silently. It was something she would need to know for their child when it came. It was hopeful, but at least until a year separated her from her son's death, he would not dare ask her to stop the tea.

"I do hope it's a boy," she said but added nothing else.

"It will be easier for the child if it is," he agreed. She reflected on his words. Unless angry, she thought very carefully before responding.

"Why is that?"

"The child's mother is not Powhatan. It will not be part of the Tribe. A boy might run the gauntlet and find acceptance. A girl depends on the luck of beauty."

"That is horrible," she mused.

"And your people would accept such a child?"

"If it was raised a Christian," she answered. He grunted. He disliked her God what little he knew of him anyway, but he dare not tell her that.

"The Pale One will stay with you here again. Kesegowase will check in throughout the night."

"Is that necessary? The last time he all but scared me right to death," she sighed. Megedagik glanced at Ahote. The boy ceased his pouting immediately. Megedagik might not agree with the punishment either, but a child respected their mother, and Megedagik would not accept anything else.

"It is not easy to slip into the village undetected, but possible, and I will not risk it," he replied. He spoke with little emotion but he felt it deeply. She did not protest.

"Hunting again?"

"Yes."

It was her turn to grunt. She knew what he was doing. He was going to find him and do what he should have done all those months ago and return with his scalp for his pale young wife. Then, she might accept the title he only dare use within his own head.

Askuweteau has been helping him diligently. It was as much to get back into the good graces of his pale wife through his aid and show of respect to the Maskaanna as it was to endear himself to Megedagik.

"It seems silly to go at night," she said.

"We will be going a bit further than usual. We need to leave at night early to see in the morning."

"I will prepare your bed roll," she said, putting the shirt down and going back into the hut.

"Papa?" Ahote asked quietly.

"Hush. Accept your punishment like a man," he scolded gently. Ahote fell silent. The Maskaanna came back out a few minutes later. She had a fresh pot of hot water. She poured everyone a cup of tea and beckoned Ahote over to her. The boy sat down beside her begrudgingly but respectfully.

"You did right standing up for your sister," she said, surprising Megedagik. "And your father was right when he told you to stand up for yourself and to be strong." Megedagik smiled. He had not been aware she heard that. "But thievery is wrong. You should not have taken his belongings."

Unable to help herself, and despite her strong tone, she reached out and stroked his hair.

"But why? Papa won and he took you," the boy said with such innocence that neither really knew how to respond to it. Maskaanna looked as though she had seen a ghost, but she recovered enough to say,

"Because it's ..."

She paused and looked to Megedagik. He knew why she wasn't speaking. Because it was a rule she could only explain using her own people's rules. Megedagik had already been clear with her about not raising them white.

"Because no society can survive without a code of conduct and honor," Megedagik explained. "Taking a prize in battle is not the same as taking something from a fellow tribesman."

Maskaanna nodded grimly when the boy looked at her for corroboration.

"Then I won't do it again," he vowed. Maskaanna smiled and ran her fingers through her hair. The boy tolerated it a moment before squirming away. She gave a jerk of her head.

"Now go play," she ordered. The boys face lit up and he went running. Mansi frowned deeply and have a scowl in his direction.

"Are you not thankful that your brother defended you?" Megedagik asked. Mansi said nothing and his lips pressed together. "Mansi."

"He was not bothering me," Mansi mumbled.

"Then explain –"

He stopped when he caught sight of the Maskaanna's face. She gave a little shake of her head.

"Mansi, come with me to Wampau?" she asked. The little girl jumped up to follow. Megedagik watched them walk away. A white hand touched his daughter's back, patting gently. The girl chartered on readily.

While they were gone Kesegowase joined him. He sat down and Megedagik offered him his pipe.

"Look North," he suggested with a puff of smoke. He handed the pipe back.

"We've been north and no sign."

"I've heard tell he's with the squash planters."

"From?"

"Dichali."

"That is a source not to be trusted. They were friends."

"You asked for information. I've supplied what I've heard." He took the pipe back and took a puff.

"We will follow it then. Keep a sharp eye on her. You may use what force necessary to keep her from wandering outside the walls."

"Not a woman I wish to battle," he replied with a wry smile.

"Nor I," Megedagik replied fondly. "Do not let her wander. She is not safe until he is dead. A man that would murder a boy for vengeance and pleasure has an evil heart, and his vengeance will not be slated till she is no more. I will not let that happen."

"I will keep a watchful eye," his brother vowed. Megedagik nodded thoughtfully.

"Do you think it too hopeful, to think this time next year she might be carrying my child?" Megedagik asked. His brother took back the pipe and puffed. He was expecting a child of his own soon.

"I do not know her well. You would know better than I," Kesegowase responded. "I think the more important consideration is what her level of excitement might be."

Megedagik grunted and took his pipe back. He took one more puff and rose to gather his weapons. His brother remained a short time longer, finishing the tobacco in the pipe and departed. The Maskaanna returned alone a few more minutes after he left. Megedagik glanced up from his new hatchet.

"You've lost a child," he informed her dryly.

"Your daughter is in love," she answered with a tiny smile. He glanced up sharply. She was far too young. The Maskaanna chuckled softly at the anger on his face and added a log to the fire. She hugged her knees to her chest and gazed into the flames. "Ahote found Motega and Mansi at the edge of the pond by the north wall. Kissing."

"She is not yet flowered," he blustered. She got up and moved to his side of the fire. Still on her knees she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"They were  _kissing,_ " she soothed him, running a cool white hand over his warm, copper flesh. "They are children."

She leaned down and placed a quick peck to his lips. He was still not satisfied.

"Motega has not yet run the gauntlet. He is no man."

"And your daughter is no woman," she replied. "We'll keep her better supervised but do not steal this from her. Never will she experience a love so innocent and pure."

She settled down in the furs before him.

"I remember, Francis Blake," she told him with a little smile. She was examining her ruined finger nails. "If I were a luckier woman and might have married for love, it would have been Francis. He had green eyes and red hair."

"Red hair?" he asked a disapproving frown.

"He was handsome," she murmured affectionately. The smile was soon gone and she was added matter of factly, "he died a summer after our first kiss. Fourteen. Hit by a horse."

She slapped her hands together loudly.

"I cried for months," she added and shrugged, though she seemed entirely unaffected by the story.

"Horse. Those… animals you've brought," he questioned. She nodded but did not seem in the mood to slate his curiosity.

"You should hold off on your hunt," she suggested with a sigh. She tossed a little pebble into the flames. "We have more than enough food for the next few days."

"I hunger for elk," he answered.

"I am going to go lie down," she added a moment or so later. He nodded. "I would not be opposed to company."

He followed her into the lodge, closing the door as he did. She settled down on their furs. She put some logs on the carefully maintained coals and the fire sprang back to life. He was rustling through his belongings when she settled down beside him.

"It cannot be healthy," she mused. "The amount you smoke."

"Hush," he said after packing his pipe. He put the pipe to her lips. She wrapped her lips around the stem. "Take it."

She obeyed and he brought the match to the tobacco.

"Breathe deeply," he said, pinching her noise. She obeyed. She coughed and he chuckled, taking the pipe and bringing it to his own lips to take a deep breath. He added, still chuckling, "You must hold it in your lungs a short while. Again."

She bit her lip and then nodded. She took the pipe and he pressed the match back to the leaves. She breathed in deeply again. This time, as she took the pipe from her lung she waited. Her eyes were on his, wide as her lungs began to burn and her brain went empty.

"Breathe out," he reminded and smoke came rushing from her nose and lips. She giggled and he chuckled again. "A fine feeing," he said putting her thoughts into words.

"Almost better than wine," she smiled.

"Better than wine," he disagreed. He put the pipe to the side. When he looked back she was examining her finger nails. He picked up her hands and raised them up. "These hands should bring you pride. You must not try and hide them."

"I once had beautiful hands," she told him.

"I would have found them lacking," he answered. She laughed and he thought her eyes turned wet. Her hands tightened around his and she looked at the fire hiding her face from his. When she turned back she had a little smile on her lips.

He did not waste any time in leaning down toward her. He pressed her lips to hers. She leaned back onto the furs and parted her lips for him. Her legs parted next, with only the gentlest of nudges from his hand, and he settled between her. Wishing not to be too tired when he set off that night, he rolled them over, settling her on top of him. She sat up. It was the first he had put her in such a position, but it was clear to him it was not new to her.

He felt a swell of possessive jealously, reminded himself the man that had touched her before him was dead, and reached for her hips.

His copper fingers dug into her hips with a bruising grip, but only moans of pleasure escaped her lips as she continue to roll her hips into him. She bit her lips to keep herself quiet. Her hands gripped his chest hard, leaving red marks in their wake with her ruined fingers. His fingers continued to prod at her creamy flesh until he got a firm grip. He controlled her movements, thrusting into her deeply, bringing another audible moan from her lips.

He sat up abruptly, wrapping his arms around her middle. His lips latched onto a nipple and she held his face to her breasts. She all but smothered him. He came up for air and put his mouth to hers. The kisses were wet and sloppy. Neither had particularly good aim at the moment. Their breathing was loud and erratic.

"The children," she breathed. "I think I hear the children…"

"They know better," he answered. His hand, large and warm, slid up her back. She moved away from his kiss. His mouth was content to close around the soft flesh of her neck. He liked the color of the marks he left on her skin. He'd done well to keep them from view until now.

"What – What if they come in?"

"They know better," he growled again.

"What if –"

He groaned and shifted them abruptly. She was on her back in an instant, legs in the air, and was reentering her. His fingers threaded between hers, holding them up above her head, and he thrust harder.

"Hassun," she breathed.

" _Quiet_ ," he breathed and nipped at her jaw. He grabbed her thighs, shifted her again, and found his completion. She found her own completion soon enough. Her body trembled and she tossed her head back on the furs, lips opening wide. A strangled cry escaped her lips as she tried to smother the sounds of her ecstasy. He leaned down, breathing heavily, and placed his lips to her jaw.

"Once upon a time, all I desired was to hear you speak," he admitted her. He placed a gentle kiss to her neck. Her skin was salty, sweaty. "Now I cannot get you to keep your lips shut."

She smiled and gently stroked the back of his neck with her mangled nails. He caressed her collar bone with his lips.

"You should stay tonight," she said again. Her voice was soft. The children were playing outside, she had heard correctly, but as he suspected, they knew better. They might not know  _what_ was happening, but children knew early on you did not enter a lodge when mother and father were inside alone.

He pressed his nose and breathed in deeply. He would be away from her for a day or more. He would miss her warmth, her softness.

"I told you, I desire –"

"Elk, I know," she cut him off with a sigh. Her nails felt good as they gently scratched the hot, damp, skin at the back of his neck. "I will make you anything else you desire. I will – "

"Alice," he whispered, looking up. She fell silent. "Hush. I am going."

She nodded and pulled back to her. It was as though she could not say her next words while making eye contact for once his face was nestled in the crook of his neck, she spoke.

"I do not know how many losses I have left," she whispered. "You, Sarah, the Children… I do not think I'd survive it."

He pulled back. He looked into her eyes. He stroked her hair back from her face.

"I've faced many an elk before," he murmured with a smile. "I will return home to you."

She nodded. She forced a smile but he could see trepidation in her gaze.

"Then I will pray for good hunting," she answered. He kissed her again. She pressed her lips back to his with equal force. He moved his hips again. His body was spurred on by her touch, her care and her faith.

Once finished, he lay on his back as she readied the tea. He felt regret as he watched her drink it.

"Keep an eye on Mansi?" he requested. "She is too young."

Maskaanna smiled but she gave her assent. They left the lodge together. The children had moved on. The time was coming, but Megedagik offered they walk to Askuweteau's little plot outside of the walls, instead of waiting for them to come to him. She wrapped her arms around his. She enjoyed this manner of walking, and though it was foreign to him, he enjoyed having her so close.

"While you are gone, if you could find a rabbit?"

"I will return with a rabbit," he promised. She sighed loudly, signaling her discontent once again. It brought an upward tilt to his lips.

They arrived at the plot of land. The Pale One was by the fire. Askuweteau was dressed for cold weather hunting. He had his bow, hatchet, club, and dagger by his side. He was slinging his quiver on over his shoulder as they came into the clearing. The Pale One smiled brightly as Maskaanna came into view. She got up and came walking forward. It was difficult to know how far along she was. The medicine woman might, but she wore a warm dress, and was not large enough for him to know by site.

The two began t speak rapidly in their tongue. Megedagik said nothing. It did not bother him so much anymore. Now that she spoke to him, now that she spoke his language, the two could speak in their native tongue. Sometimes, he and his brothers would find themselves speaking their own old language. It brought them comfort.

"Askuweteau," he called and came toward them.

"Megedagik," he answered respectfully.

"Kesegowase says Dichali says to go North," he told the young warrior.

"North?" the young man did not seem convinced. He frowned deeply. "We've been as far as the River People. He'd not have gone that far."

"I think it is unreliable information as well," Megedagik stated. "Dichali and he ran the gauntlet together. They've been friends since before manhood."

"West then?" Askuweteau asked. Megedagik considered. He turned to look back at the Maskaanna.

"Yes. It should not be this hard to find him," he voiced his growing concern.

"Those beyond the village walls…. They believe it. That she's a devil. A witch of some sort."

Megedagik grunted.

"West then," he agreed. "Three days out."

"Out? Forgive me but, my wife is pregnant. I'd rather –"

"She will be within the walls under the care of my brother. If you do not trust him you may make a suggestion now for their custodian."

He cleared his throat.

"No, no of course not," he answered.

"Maskaanna," he called abruptly. She looked toward him, as beautiful as ever. "We will escort you back to the gates. Then we leave."

Her smile faltered only a moment before she nodded. She linked arms with the Pale One on the walk back.

The Pale one had seemed to forgive her husband. Things seemed strained still, but the affection there was clear to any uninterested onlooker. The brother had gone home, though Megedagik doubted it was the end of it. He would make sure to ask on their trip.

They got to the front gates and the girls withdrew from each other. Megedagik stopped before the Maskaanna. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Remember what I told you," she said with rehearsed coolness.

"I will," he promised.

"I will be expecting a rabbit when you return," she added. She blinked a few times.

"And more," he vowed, touching her cheek. He removed his necklace from around his neck and placed it over her shoulders. "I will be gone a few days. Keep it safe for me."

She nodded and examined the bare claws. He placed a soft kiss to her mouth.

"Stay within the walls," he ordered again. "Kesegowase will make sure of it."

"I will not venture beyond the walls alone," she snapped with some annoyance. He smiled in response. He gave another nod and called the young man away from his pale, pregnant wife. He looked back at her repeatedly as they ventured on to the west.

"She is not going to forget you in a matter of days. When the summer comes, you may need to leave her for some weeks."

"She is colder now," Askuweteau admitted, readjusting the strap of his bow. "It is as though I am the same as everyone else."

"Shattered allusions take time to recover from," Megedagik responded. The younger man reacted with more anger than he had expected.

"And what allusion has been shattered?"

"That you were ever different," Megedagik replied a bit too harshly. "Had you come upon that house, you'd have butchered her parents the same as your brother, and she knows it. Her folly is thinking there is any shame in it, but you cannot expect her to simply be at peace because you will it so."

"She refuses to call me husband and herself wife," he spoke now with less passion. The air was cool against their skin, though both were wrapped warmly in thick pelts. Their breath was visible as it passed from between their lips and they made no attempts to be quiet as they stepped on cold, dead twigs and sticks, snapping them between the force of their moccasin clad feet. The forest was quiet, the day gray, the air still. A boy might have found it frightening to walk through these woods alone, but these were seasoned warriors, and they had to make the ridge by nightfall.

"Does it matter what she calls you or herself? She is wife in all but name."

"Has the Maskaanna told you anything of their rituals, their superstitions?" the young man asked. "They marry for life, no matter what, barring death. In her heart, she is not my wife, and I not her husband."

"Askuweteau, I admire your passion, but you have the foolishness of youth about you still," Megedagik cautioned with a smile. "It has not yet been a year. Be patient and she will come around."

"The Maskaanna, she is beginning to come up around," the boy smiled. Megedagik shot him a look that told him his relationship with his white captive was not something he was currently willing to discuss. Askuweteau said nothing and they continued to walk in silence.

As they approached the ridge Askuweteau hurried ahead to scope out a good place for camp. The sun was beginning to set. The temperature had dropped rapidly. Megedagik collected firewood, mind wandering back to the white woman he had left behind. He was surprised by the drop in temperature. He hoped Maskaanna would keep herself warm. The children he did not fear for, not with her to watch over them, but she had a nasty habit of neglecting herself, mostly out of pure absentmindedness.

"A place!" Askuweteau's voice came echoing down from the tiny ridge before the stream. Megedagik called back his understanding. He walked up the lift in the land and found a find little spot for a night camp. Askuweteau was already creating a small shelter to sleep beneath and block them from the wind. He gazed up at the blackening sky. A sheet of grey hung overhead. He prayed for snow, begged it not to rain.

He began to dig a hole for the fire. They would not eat that night. Great Spirit willing, they would have food in the traps they would lay come dawn. Megedagik lit the flame and went to set his traps. He returned at the same time as Askuweteau. They laid out their furs. Tumbling from a loose string, once firmly wrapped beneath a strap, hidden from view, was a tiny little piece of wood. He picked it up and moved closer to the fire light to examine it. He knew what it was immediately. He had helped her carve it. A strange figure these white women liked. A symbol of the God he did not like, whom the Maskaanna prayed to multiple times a day.

"Sneaky woman," he whispered with a smile on his lips and a warmth in his chest.

"What?" Askuweteau asked.

"Nothing," Megedagik murmured. "You sleep. I'll take first watch."

The young warrior settled down in his furs without any protest. He gazed at the cross a bit longer. It was out of no love for this God that he did not tuck it into the fire. It was out of no love for this god that he fastened it to the necklace his father put around his neck the last time he saw his father alive.

"We don't go home until I have his scalp," Megedagik vowed.

Askuweteau turned his head.

"We don't go home until you have his scalp," he agreed. Megedagik put his hand on the block of wood and said a prayer to his own God. A prayer he find the man that should have died months ago, that the Maskaanna stay safe and well in his absence, and that when he returned, bloody scalp in hand for her to prepare, it would be to a woman ready to pledge her life to him as wife, and ready to accept his same pledge in return.

Up above, snow began to fall from the sky.

* * *

The women were angry and it was clear enough to him as he walked up to the fire. He braced himself. He knew those faces. It transcended skin color; the same for all women it seemed. He almost turned and walked away, but he had made a vow to his older brother to protect both women, and he would do so.

"Maskaanna, Pale One," he greeted. She hated that name. It stopped no one from her calling her that. While the rage of the Maskaanna put many into an uneasy fear, no one quite admitted, but everyone rather believing she possessed some sort of supernatural strength, the yellow girl's anger was rather amusing. Like an angry wolf pup.

"He told me two days, maybe three," Maskaanna informed him imperiously. She was always infuriatingly proper, and though her language difficulties took away from some of her haughtiness, he got the point. "And here I sit, four days later, without my…  _captor_ having returned. Where is he?"

"I do not know, but I promise you both, your men will return."

"Ahanu – Askuweteau, he told me three days as well. He wouldn't lie to me," the Pale One said. He heard her mumble afterward, "Might hide the truth, but never lie."

"They are well and safe. It is far too early to begin to worry.  _Far_ too early," A normal woman would not be remotedly fazed by the duration of their absence. "If they have not returned in a month –"

"A month!" the Maskaanna's cry was shrill. She drew heads but did not seem to care. "He better return to me wounded or I will give him one worth being late for," she raged, getting up to her feet and wringing her hands in her skirt. The air was cold but she dressed appropriately. The trembling of her hands was not for lack of warmth. "A month. Ahote inside. Your shaking. Leave that lodge one more time without the lined shirt or you don't go out again until your father returns," she ordered. The boy ran back in and she directed her wrathful eyes back toward Kesegowase. "Whenever that might be. Amongst  _my_ people, men do not simply leave their families for months on end without proper cause."

"The cause is proper –"

"Or without  _communicating_ it," she snapped back. The Pale One sat quietly. She was wrapped in a blanket made of a multitude of foxes. It was an impressive quilt. If the young warrior made it, he was impressed. She played with a tail thoughtfully. The Maskaanna continued muttering darkly.

"I have some things I'd like to collect from home then," The Pale One said. "Do you have time to escort us?"

"I can bring you now," Kesegowase agreed. The Pale One smiled; the Maskaanna had him fixed with a bemused glare, a tilt to the head, and was wiping her hands clean with a rag.

"Will you be joining us, Maskaanna?"

"Ahote!" she called. "Mansi, come, up."

The little girl stood.

"Alice?" Mansi asked, looping her arms around the Maskaanna's.

"Yes, Mansi?" she asked. "Ahote if you come out of there without that shirt on…!"

The boy had rounded the corner, saw the Maskaanna, and with ever widening eyes, turned and hurried back into the lodge to change. The white woman still wore that his brother's necklace around her neck. His brother had told him of her reluctance to be called wife. Hassun had never asked, but she'd told him clearly enough she was not his wife and never would be. She seemed far more perturbed then a simple captive should be.

They walked to the walls and the two white women prattled on in their tongue. The children to spoke to them. He glanced back only once surprised to hear the children speaking that language with such ease, but made no formal protest. Ahote had the easier time of the two children, to Mansi's clear annoyance.

They walked along the walls toward Askuweteau's little camp.

"This is where he hunts?" Ahote asked excitedly. Jumping up and down and running in circles, arms out by his side like an eagle.

"He brings what he hunts here," Kesegowase told his nephew. The boy hurried over to the little lodge Askuweteau used for skinning animals.

"Watch the knives, please," Maskaanna called gently toward the child. Mothers were very much the same, Kesegowase thought, no matter what the color of their skin, eyes, or hair.

"Kesegowase," Mansi called, hurrying up to him. "Come look at the pelts. Come look!"

He followed her over to the shed. Ahote was, as expected, inspecting the knives. Kesegowase snapped his fingers at the boy. Ahote removed his fingers from the blades and glanced toward the Maskaanna.

"This is a fine pelt," Kesegowase told Mansi. "This one is less fair."

Kesegowase had no doubt his brother was teaching his daughter to understand what would be a worthy gift from a worthy suitor and what was below parr, but as the girl's uncle, he felt the need to do his part, especially since her mother's brothers were in another village. Mansi felt them both in comparison. She was thinking deeply. His bother had provided the tribe with fine offspring. He could only imagine what he might give with the Maskaanna as a mother. He shuddered to think of it.

"Maskaanna?" Kesegowase called, leaving his niece and nephew. She turned to face him but said nothing. "Will you need anything? Incase it takes my brother longer than you think acceptable?"

"It isn't funny," she snapped. "Where I am from –"

"My brother will return to you," he eased her fear and cut off whatever biting insult she was about to place upon his people. "But he has tasked me with protecting you and the Pale One and the Children. If he is gone longer than expected, I am expected to hunt for you, the children, and the Pale one. So… is there anything you need?"

"I like rabbit," she muttered. She looked up sharply. "But he is bringing me back a rabbit. He promised. Enough meat to feed the children. Ahote likes racoon. Mansi likes fish. Whatever is easiest for you. Sarah- The Pale One – and I will eat anything."

He nodded. He reached out and touched her shoulder. She looked up at him. Brown eyes, but light, hair brown, but the color of honey.

"You, Maskaanna, are my sister," he told her. "We are family."

She looked at him. Eyes hard and untrusting.

"I brought you home," he reminded her. "Here."

She looked down. She remembered.

"We are friends," she said. She looked back up at him. Her face and her eyes were hard, but he did not think she would say something she did not believe. "And you promise me now he is safe?"

"He is safe," he promised. She nodded.

"I want some rabbit," she said. "Sarah likes venison."

He smiled and gave a nod.

"You shall have it. I will make sure," he vowed. Even if he had to trade for it, he'd keep this promise. Who knew what powers this woman possessed.

"Your brother. Hassun," she said. It did not surprise him, her using his personal name. His brother felt deeply for this woman. "What might he expect, returning from so long a journey?"

Kesegowase did not smile, though he knew what she meant, regardless of whether she did or not. What might he expect from a wife after such a long journey. Ignoring the obvious response, he answered, "a warm fire, a loving wife, and healthy children."

She gave a wry smile.

"Your people like gifts," she said. "What will he want?"

"I have told you," he said, unsure if she was aware of the words he chose to use. "That is what will make him happy."

She paused and stared at him. She touched his shoulder and closed her eyes. He remembered her, beaten, buised, swollen, bloody. The fragile thing he brought to the Corn Planters. He felt genuine affection for her. As a woman. As a person.

"I –"

Whatever she might have said died on her lips. Every head currently situated within the disgraced warrior's camp turned abruptly, sharply, out of instinct. The arrow that embedded itself deeply within the wood of the towering walnut tree, was at perfect level and but a foot away from the Pale One's vulnerable womb.


	28. XXVIII

XXVIII

He awoke with a start, though there was no outside disturbance that ripped him from his sleep. He stared up at the ceiling from the hard dirt floor of the armory, the heinous scenes of his nightmare replaying vividly in brain. He saw his wife's face staring back at him in the darkness. For the millionth time since the massacre, he wondered if his wife lived. He wondered if his son, that beautiful red cheeked, blond boy, still lived. And for the millionth time, as lay there, listening to the wind whip outside the windows, he felt doubt sink into his heart like a hot knife in butter. He felt that crippling realization that they were dead rush up within him in an overwhelming and devastating blow. He pushed it deeply into the back of brain, passed the open wound of his shredded heart.

Someone stirred to his right. They were all in the armory; both teams. They'd leave at sunup. He'd follow Tyndall north. They'd sweep west, sticking close together, and make camp at any remaining structure in Martin's Hundred. He was anxious to get back there. He wanted to go back through the house. He needed to look around the yard. He hadn't really checked the woodshop by Langley's.

He started awake again. Clarke had his hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Neither man said a thing. A cup of coffee was put in his hand by Thatcher.

"I knew your cousin," Lawrence told him as he took the tin.

"Yeah?" he grunted.

"She was dear friends with my wife."

"We'll revenge them," Thatcher said, raising his cup of coffee. Lawrence lifted his cup just an inch. He lowered it down with a bitter smile. He could see his wife crying in his dreams, begging him for his help, asking him why he wasn't there. He drank the coffee in a single gulp. It burned his throat and his chest.

"Dansby," Tyndall said. He held out a pistol to him. It was old but looked effective. "Took it from Robertson's pack. He'd left it behind when he went hunting. He won't be needing it anymore."

Lawrence examined the gun and slipped it into his belt. He walked into the corner and reached for his bandolier belt. He checked to see if they were filled as he stepped into the frigid morning air.

"I don't know if we'll get to Martin's today," Lawrence told Tyndall. Clarke glanced at them silent as he readied his pack. "Not if we're searching for this band."

"Pod's a fine tracker. The weather has been so cold. I want a base where we can start out tracking a few miles from the fort. We get there tonight."

Lawrence nodded. He wasn't so sure he wanted to look at Martin's Hundred anymore. He didn't want to know. He didn't know what he'd do if he found her or his boy.

They set out without much delay. Tyndall and Thatcher made plans to reunite should they come across larger numbers. The day grew warmer. The sky was clear and the sun was bright. They moved quickly. To his surprise, they did not for any signs of savages at all. They moved directly for Martin's Hundred.

As they approached his heart beat harder and his anguish grew, pushing past the barriers he kept built up. He did so for his own sanity. He had to see the house again though. When he saw it last, he had not been thinking clearly. He might have missed something.

They walked through the remains of the burnt crops, passed the scattered remains that had not been collected and burned or buried. He lead them down the dirt trail he had wondered down, head swollen and bruised, bleeding, head aching and eyes unfocused.

He paused as they came around the corner to the homestead. He physically hurt. His entire body. He took a breath and looked to the ground. Tyndall put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Clarke walked forward with Pod. Lewis and Philip remained behind.

He could see his wife by the clothes line, hanging linen, William running around her happily. She looked toward him and smiled, welcoming him back from the fields with a kiss and a cup of small beer.

"Did you leave the door open?"

He looked at Edward Clarke, ripping himself from his musings. He blinked, regaining his composure.

"Oh, I may have," he considered, coming forward. "I cannot recall."

"Odd they didn't burn it down," Clarke observed. He examined the door. "The poor bastard there might have given your wife and child time to flee."

"Then the cold got them," Lewis said, not cruelly. "I only wish to caution you, Lawrence," he added, placing his own hand on Lawrence's shoulder. "Until you let go of this – this… this impossible hope –"

"It is far from impossible," Lawrence responded. He turned to look into his friend's eyes. Lewis had lost family. He'd held their corpses in his arms. Lawrence almost envied him. At least he knew. "All things are possible in God."

He walked toward the home he had built for his missing wife. Each step was harder than the last. His legs felt like heavy stone. He paused inside the door frame. No one pushed him forward. They waited patiently. Only Lewis spoke, breaking him from his thoughts. "Mighty fine, bloody house."

Lawrence stepped forward. "I promised Alice the day we wet she would have a house like she had never dreamed of in the new world. I built the main house. It took me two summers to finish it all."

"Did you –"

Someone quieted him and Lawrence examined the kitchen in silence. Pots and pans, their plates, Alice's rags…

He walked into the living room and sat down on the bed. It was agony sitting in that room, on that bed. When he'd met Alice, he'd been pleased with her. She had beauty and a pleasant disposition. She was obedient and dutiful She worked hard and had a sensible head on her shoulders. It wasn't until they reached the new world that he realized how special a woman his wife truly was. They had arrived at the fort and found a wild and uncivilized land. Knowing what it was, and truly being faced with it had been frightening and intimidating.

Alice had not been fazed.

"Pick a plot," Martin had instructed. He was there to greet his new tenants and get some supplies. Lawrence had stood there, grappling with his new responsibilities and the dangers they faced. Alice picked up their bas and began walking. They purchased an ox and into the wilderness they went.

She slept in the forest without protest and as they finally found their very own plot of land, he renewed his vow to her.

"I will build you a house like you've never seen," he promised, pulling her out to the build site. "Right here, you will have a bedroom, a kitchen, a privy all your own."

She'd giggled happily as he pulled her closer. Her faith in him made him a better man than he was. Looking into those beautiful brown eyes, he could not let her down,  _would not_ let her down. He picked up her hand. Fragile and dainty. "And you will have the house of a duchess, my lady in disguise," he promised further. He kissed her fingers.

He closed his eyes and stood. He never knew such pain was possible.

"We stay here tonight?" he asked Tyndall. Tyndall nodded and packed his pipe. "Then might I scout around a bit."

"Not alone," his captain responded. "Teams of three. No less. No one goes anywhere alone."

"I will join you," Clarke offered.

"I as well," Lewis volunteered.

"Safer with four," Philip offered.

Lawrence smiled softly and gave his friends a nod of thanks. Watkins and Guthrie remained to keep an eye out on the perimeter. Pod was rummaging through his pack. He was an odd man. He liked the savages. He'd spent a lot of time at the school at Henricus. He even spent time in their villages up north.

They stepped out and moved into the clearing. Lawrence examined the rotted body by the clothes line. The linens were tattered from cold and rain, but remained there as Alice had left them. He considered burying the boy, but it was too cold and he was too tired.

"I want to go out toward the road. If she got out, she might have tried to find me. We should spread out, but stay in site. Look for signs of clothing, bodies… anything."

The group of men nodded and they headed off into the forest. Memories kept playing over and over in his brain. It was horrendous. At the fort he could keep busy, it was easy to push these thoughts from his mind and shield his wounded heart, but now it was just too much. He looked to his left. He could see Lewis off in the distance. The forest was wet from rain. Raw and cold. He preferred snow.

He was meticulous in his search. He looked over the ground carefully. He even turned over leaves, looking for blood, long ago rinsed away, but he had to look. He could hear the water up ahead. He closed his eyes again. He steadied himself with a few steady breaths. He opened then and continued his search. He examined a rock he thought had blood on it, but it was merely dirt and mud. He turned to move to the side, careful he did not miss anything.

Lawrence paused abruptly. A musket rested against a nearby tree, the butt cut nearly in half. It wasn't one of theirs. None of them would put down their guns. He paused and glanced in the direction Lewis had gone off in. He could see him through the trees, but he was too far away to call to without announcing his presence. Immediately, Lawrence thought of Bart. His musket was not found with the body. Slowly, Lawrence took a step forward. His boot snapped a twig in half and he stopped. He could smell rain. The forest was silent.

He moved to the side, away from the musket, and slowly walked toward the rise in the dirt that sloped down toward the little river. William used to play in it in the summer. Alice would watch, her feet dipped into the trickling water. William would splash around happily, naked, not a care in the world.

He found the savage as he came over the ridge. He was crouched down in the water, washing his bald scalp. He had a strip of short hair at the center of his scalp, stretching from the top of his forehead to the back of his neck. He was shirtless, even in this weather. Thin, very thin, but with defined muscles. He wore a simple wrap around his middle and long boots of buckskin and squirrel fur. He had weapons at his sides. A club, a hatchet, and a dagger. The hatchet and dagger looked English.

Lawrence slid his musket off his back. He lowered it down, pointed it down at the savage, and placed his finger on the trigger. He aimed but took a step forward to maximize his accuracy. Leaves and sticks crinkled beneath his boot. The savage grew alert. He was on his feet and facing him in an instant, dagger and hatchet in his hands.

"Drop it," Lawrence barked. His hand was clammy around the gun. He'd never killed before. His heart thundered. "Put it down."

The savage stared back. He had the height and musculature of a man, but the face of a boy. The savage looked at the gun. His eyes narrowed. Lawrence raised the gun. The savage hesitated a moment more. He bounded up the hill, hatchet raised. Lawrence pulled the trigger. The savage fell backwards, scrambling down the hill in a frenzy. He felt regret in his chest and let out a ragged sigh.

But it was merely fear that sent him scrambling backward. The savage was on his feet in an instant. He stumbled back in the water, eyes wide, body hunched. Lawrence waited for him to come running back toward him. He needed to keep the higher ground. Otherwise, he'd stand little chance against a clearly experienced young warrior. To his surprise, the warrior turned and fled. It never occurred to him that he might be rejoining his team. Lawrence was running down the hill in a controlled fall, shouting to his friends to follow. The savage was fast. Faster than anything Lawrence had ever seen before. He'd never catch him and their location would be betrayed, they'd be killed before they ever got back to the fort.

His lungs burned as he continued on. He reached up on instinct, yanking at the fasteners to his breastplate and let it fall to the ground. His feet moved faster. Clarke caught up first. He aimed and fired. Bark exploded by the savage's head. He hunched forward, stumbled, and straightened back up. It gave Lawrence time enough to get closer. Another explosion. Bark came out and caught the savage on the face. He slowed again, stumbling, and grabbed onto his cheek. The savage turned, hoping to find shelter in the thicker trees. It gave Lewis time to catch up, aim his gun, and send a ball of lead deep into the tree right before the savage's face. He jumped back in surprise and began to run again. Lawrence stretched out his arms and dove. He had to. There were no more guns. They didn't stop him now he'd be gone and they'd be dead.

He wrapped his arms around the slender waist. They both went colliding to the ground. The savage had a hand on the knife but he could not get to his hatchet. Lawrence had to struggled with him only briefly before his friends arrived. A violent, swift kick to the savage's bloody face brought his struggle to an end. Philip wrenched the club from his hand from the savage's belt and raised it high, ready to end him.

"Stop! Wait!" Lawrence cried. Philip stilled. Lawrence looked down at the savage. He was gazing up at the sky in a gaze. His mouth was full of blood. He stuck out his tongue to examine it. He'd bitten it pretty badly. "We kill him now we won't know how many there are. Pod can talk to him."

"No bloody way. We kill the bastard," Philip snapped.

"Dansby is right," Clarke said. Everyone was quiet. "Does anyone have rope?"

"Use his belt."

Lawrence sat up, straddling the savage. The youth blinked, turning his head to look at the other men. Lawrence cut the belt from his waist, giving the weapons to Lewis. Lawrence flipped his over and bound his hands behind his back. He did not struggle. It surprised Lawrence. Still panting, he got to his feet, dragging the youth to his feet.

"Quick, before his friends show up," Lewis said.

"Up here, he has a musket," Lawrence said.

"One of ours?"

"Did savages start making muskets while I wasn't looking?" Clarke snapped. Lawrence pushed the savage back toward the camp. They covered less ground than he thought they did. They stopped at the tree with the musket leaning against it.

"That's Bart's. That was Barty's. Give me that son of a bitch, I'll kill him," Philip seethed, reached out for him. He took Lawrence by surprise. He got a hold of the savage's shoulders and dragged him closer. Now under attack, the savage reacted again. His neck curled and he slammed the crown of his head into Philip's nose. Philip stumbled backward, blood gushing from his broken nose. The savage brought his head back up and spit into his face for good measure. Clarke shoved him backward and Lawrence took control of the savage. The savage did not continue his fight.

"He killed Bart!"

"We don't know that –"

"And what is that, huh? Keeping a tally, savage?" Philip asked. He wiped his nose and blood spread across his face. Lawrence looked down to the single line cut into his chest. It was fresh. No more than a few days old.

"We bring him back to Tyndall!" Lawrence shouted. "Let Pod talk to him."

He picked up the musket and tossed it at Philips.

"Let's go."

They walked back down the hill toward his home. Lawrence did his best not to look at the savage. He didn't want to. He felt anger, hatred, the need to kill him. The closer they got to his home, the greater his hatred grew, and he realized he would have no problem killing him in that moment. He shoved him forward, a bit rougher, and continued.

Guthrie and Watkin were out front keeping an eye on the perimeter of the field. They hurried to the edge of the clearing to help them. They were more bewildered than hostile upon seeing the savage.

"Where's Pod?" Lawrence asked.

"Went off scouting along the perimeter. You know him. Even Tyndall couldn't stop him from heading off alone." Watkin answered.

"Selfish bastard," Lewis cursed.

"Come on. Get him inside," Lawrence said. He grabbed the savage by the upper arm and pulled him along. He did not fight and walked up the steps without protest.

"Did you find them?" Tyndall asked, pipe falling from his lips as he saw them enter. "Did you kill them?"

"Just him," Lawrence answered.

"Found him with this," Philip added, tossing the musket to Tyndall.

"Looks like we found one of them," he mused and tossed the musket back. "Do you speak English?"

The savage stared back. He was taller than Tyndall. He only stood eye to eye with Lawrence, despite being more than half his age. Tyndall reached forward and grabbed him by the neck. He was hard to hold onto. No hair, no clothing.

"Do you speak English."

He said nothing. He just blinked. Tyndall spit in disgust.

"Put him over there. I want two on him. Tie his hands in front of him and fasten them to his feet."

Lawrence helped Lewis while Philip watched. Clarke squatted down in front of him and took a sip from his canteen. The savage looked at Clarke surely trying to figure out what was wrong his face. He did nothing as they retied his wrists in front of him and attached them to his ankles. Clarke reached up and removed his hat. The savage ran his eyes over his ruined scalp. He blinked a few times and then met Clarke's eyes. He raised a hand as far as he could from his bound wrists and ankles. He moved his hand and said something in their strange tongue. He gave a nod and then leaned back. Clarke stared a moment and then stood, putting his cap on his head angrily and marching off. He left the house with a violent slam of the door. The savage looked almost perplexed.

"Away from him now. We wait for Pod to return," Tyndall ordered. "There's no telling what a feral savage might do."

They moved away from him. Lawrence settled down at the kitchen table. The table his wife had made so many dinners on. He looked across the table. He could almost see Alice there. His little boy beside her. Ignoring Tyndall's order, he pushed himself up to his feet with hands on his knees. The savage watched him approach. Lawrence crouched down in front of him.

"Can you understand me?" he asked. The savage just stared. "Can you understand me?" he asked more curtly. The savage just looked him over thoughtfully, eyes slightly wide. "I'm going to ask you some questions. And you're going to answer if you can."

The savage blinked in response and Lawrence began to speak.

* * *

The white man spoke to him, but he did not know what he was saying. The top of his head hurt, but the other man looked like he hurt more. He was unsure which white man was actually in charge. The man in the corner with the pipe and the big beard seemed to be in charge, but the one speaking to him appeared more of a leader.

A man spoke to him. Not the man with the pipe. The scalped man had not yet returned. The young warrior had never seen a man survive a scalping before. Two other men were seated at the table sharing a drink and chewing on tobacco. The other two still kept watch outside. There was no way he could get out of this alive if he fought. His best option was to wait to see if they were going to move him. But if he thought his execution was imminent, he would fight it.

The young man watched the white man speak. He was pointing at his face. He had a well-trimmed beard, dark hair, not the wild mess the other man had. The others were shaved. Was it a sign of rank perhaps? A signal to their rank in society. If so, the man behind them had to be a mighty warrior. The man pointed at his eyes. The youth narrowed his own eyes. He thought of blue eyes, bright like the sky. Was he asked for that strange looking woman? Did he know her?

The young man said nothing. The well-groomed man stood with an exasperated breath. The Powhatan watched him. The white man plopped down at the table and buried his head in his hands. Another man patted him on the shoulder but said nothing.

Some hours later, a man he had not yet seen walked into the strange structure. He spent most of the time observing his surroundings. Everything was made of wood. It was wide and open. He saw no where to sleep. The stove was in a structure in the corner, floor dirt, pots and pans hanging from a rack. Strange, strange people.

The man that arrived was dressed in pelts. His beard was white and large. His nose had red dots on it, was large and round. He was almost repulsive to look at. Around middle was a leather belt. Hanging from it was a dagger, a hatchet, and scalps. The young warrior saw it almost immediately. He examined them as the white men spoke.

_Good luck scalping me, devil,_ he thought. The man came over and crouched down in front of him. He spoke to him in their foreign tongue. When he met them with a blank expression, the man switched. His accent was strange, he struggled with words, but the young man understood.

"How many of you are there?" he asked. The warrior considered whether he wished to answer. He looked around at the other men. His eyes moved side to side. They all peered at him anxiously. "Son. Look here." The man snapped in front of his nose. His cheek stung. It had stopped bleeding, but he could feel the hardened blood along his jaw and neck. He hoped it scarred. "How many of you are there?"

He blinked, tilting his head back to rest against the wall behind him.

"This. Where did you get it?"

The exploding spear was put into the man's hand. His eyes went to the cut on his chest on impulse.

"Did you kill the man that owned this gun?"

His eyes moved between them all slowly. He saw the snarl on one man's lips. The blank stare on the others. The well-groomed man that had tried to speak to him earlier just looked sad. He had seen such sadness in his eyes before. It made him sad. He wondered if this man was the dead one's brother. A friend. The warrior nodded. The translator gave his response. The snarling man had to be held back. He cursed him, jabbing a finger at him. The man in charge ordered him outside.

"How many of you are there?" he asked again. He did not answer. "Either you tell us, or we kill you," the man informed him. He had a gravelly, low voice.

"And if I tell you, you kill me," he answered. The man actually smiled, eyes twinkling.

"Probably," he replied, though the warrior respected the honestly. He blinked, heart pounding, but forced himself to remain calm. "How many of you are there?"

He considered. Should he lie? Should he tell the truth? He wasn't sure what to do. He only shook his head.

"One last chance. How many of you are there?"

Once more, the young warrior shook his head. The man gave a tight smile.

"When you decide to you want to tell us, I'll be right there in the corner."

He retrieved a pipe as he stood. The young warrior watched him go take a seat. His brow knitted. These people would be no threat at all if this was how conducted themselves. The others fell into a conversation. The snarling man came forward. The youth watched with wide eyes. The snarling man, the one he had headbutted, came forward. His stomach plummeted. Fear gripped his heart, but he knew he had to be brave. Bravery did not mean that you were not scared; it meant you stood to face it, no matter how great that did grow.

The man said something. He grabbed onto the back of his neck. Without any more of a wait, he reared his hand back, and landed vicious punch to the young warrior's nose.

He saw stars. He'd never been hit that hard. A second blow came down hard. When the third landed, it occurred to him they'd beat him until he gave his answer. If he remained silent, it would be the end of him. But the man released him and he was sure the white man would ask his question again. He would answer. It betrayed nothing and no one. If he were to die, he was to die. There was no pride in suffering for no cause.

Before he would speak the white man's boot slammed into his stomach. If he had anything in his stomach, he might have vomited. He coughed, but another violent kick landed to his chest. More followed, but he lost count. He was punched again. Luckily, some of these blows were glancing, but far too many hit true.

"Stop. Stop," he moaned out. "Please."

He was punched again. The man did not hear him or he did not care to listen.

"Stop."

Another blow. He could taste blood.

"Stop!" he cried out, blood pouring from between his lips. Another punch. He heard shouting, and soon the man was yanked off. He moaned. He wanted to reach for his face, but his hands and feet were still bound. He fell to his side and tried to catch his breath. "It's just me," he answered. "Just me."

"You're alone?" the translator asked. He nodded feebly. Something was said and his hands were cut free. He rubbed his sore chest and dabbed at his swelling face. "And how many have you killed?"

"Fourteen," he answered. He spit the blood from his mouth. His tongue was still bleeding. He thought he had a broken tooth. He spit again, sure enough, teeth fragments came out. He moaned. The teeth had merely shattered, not dislodged. The pain was incredible.

"You want us to believe it's just you, a boy, and you killed fourteen of our men?"

"Only one in battle," he breathed. His hand lay on his chest. He breathed rapidly. He moved his fingers to touch the line. "The rest slept."

His abuser spoke viciously in their tongue.

"Why are you out here?"

"I was shamed…. I… no, I shamed myself," he answered. He ran his tongue along one of the shattered teeth and groaned. "I left… to earn forgiveness."

"What did you do?" the man asked. The young warrior paused. He stared up at the sky. He shook his head. His eyes closed again.

"It doesn't matter now," he answered. He spit again. Some bloody spittle landed on his chin. He did not try to wipe it away.

He was amazed when he was not killed. After a short conversation, his hands were tied behind his back and he was left in the corner. He suffered for a short time before he felt hands on his shoulders, straightening him. He opened his eyes. It was the well-groomed man. He put a canteen to his lips. He took a sip but spit it out. It was terrible. The man put it back to his lips. He took a sip this time. It sent a shock of pain through his teeth. He moaned and tried to hide his teeth in his shoulder. The man forced his face back up. He said something.

The youth raised his head and tried to part his lips. The man found the broken teeth and grimaced. His face was dropped and the back of his head thudded hard against the wall behind him. The drink had him feeling rather warm. Some of the pain faded. He opened his eyes, one very much swollen. He found the canteen and raised it to his lips. He drank down the vile liquid and then tossed the canteen to the side. It landed at the well-groomed man's boots. He hunched down, picked it up, and discovered it empty. The youth was sure it would get him another beating, but instead, the man crouched back beside him and tilted his head back. He said something to him. Something cold was placed into his mouth. It tasted like blood. His hands forced his jaw apart further.

In a single vicious pull, the tooth was wrenched free from his skull. After the sudden shock of pain, there was comfort. The plyers went back into his mouth and pulled a second tooth free. Once again, searing pain, and then comfort. The man ran his fingers along his mouth. He had an impulse to bite, but it faded quickly. The pulling of his teeth had been an act of kindness.

Finding no more compromised teeth, the man stood and walked away. He had his shoulders hung, his head down. He struck the abused youth on the floor as a sad man. A very sad man. The warrior spit blood from his mouth. He was yelled at, but he did not stop. He had no idea the mouth bled so much.

He leaned back against the wall again. He had the sense to keep his face angled downward, chin pressed to chest, and with the help of the vile drink, fell fast asleep.

* * *

"What do you think?" Lawrence asked Tyndall, dropping the bloody pliers down on the table. Tyndall scratched his chin beneath his bushy beard as he considered.

"Initially I didn't think it was possible, but if they were sleeping as he said, and he fought Bart one on one…" he shook his head. "We need to be carefully. Try and find his camp. Meet up with the others. See what they found."

"What do we do with him?" Lawrence asked.

"Kill him," Tyndall said, though he did not sound all that convinced.

"Can't be older than sixteen. Big bodied but young," Lawrence pointed out.

"After what they did to us?" Tyndall asked. "After all the children they killed?" His resolve strengthened. "He dies."

"I want to talk to him about Alice," Lawrence rushed out. Tyndall considered. "He might know what happened to the missing women. Graves will want to speak to him."

"Bring him to the fort?" he asked in surprise.

"Get the information we need. Kill him afterward. But we bring him to the fort."

"Larry. The chances he knows  _anything_ –"

"We won't know if we kill him."

"Larry –"

"Ralph, I don't really care what happens to him. Trust me, I won't lose an ounce of sleep over it. But they took  _twenty_ of our women, and we have a chance to get some answers. He'll know village locations. Crop locations. Their numbers…"

"No, no, you're right. We bring him back to the fort. Graves can make the call."

Lawrence felt a wave of relief rush through him. It was true, he did not really care if the savage lived or died. He found no pleasure in watching him suffer, he didn't have the stomach for torture, but he'd not lose sleep if he died. With a bit of a weight lifted from his shoulders, he walked into his old bedroom. He lay his head down on the pillow, gazing across at the empty pillow. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine she was lying there next to him.

When he opened his eyes next it was light out. He wiped the dirt from the end of the bed before leaving the room. The savage was where he had been left, head hung, some blood still oozing from between his lips. Lawrence approached him, fully expecting to find him dead. He put his hand to his forehead and tilted it back. His eyes opened and he looked around curiously. His eyes weren't too swollen, and only one side of his face had any significant bruising.

"Stand up," Lawrence ordered. He frowned. Lawrence snapped his fingers and jabbed his thumbed upward. The savage got up with a groan, using the wall behind him for support. His hands were still bound. He said something to him, and motioned to his mouth with his bound hands. Lawrence just gave a nod.

It was difficult for him to leave. He hadn't searched the way he wanted to, but he'd be back, and maybe, this young savage would tell him if his wife and boy lived.

They were all on heightened alert as they lead the savage back to the fort, but as they got further into their journey, and no surprise attack came, they started to believe he was telling the truth. The savage's mouth was still bleeding. Lawrence shoved a glove into his mouth. He bit down and the fabric absorbed the blood. When he took it back around midday, the bleeding had stopped. His stamina was something to be commended. He was walking without a single sign of exhaustion. When they stopped to rest, he'd close his eyes, as if sleeping, but the moment they all rose to get on the move, his eyes popped open and he got to his feet. Lawrence gave him some small beer and stale bread. The savage had finished all his whiskey the night before.

When they arrived at the fort, the gates swung open slowly, and they stepped inside, a crowed had gathered and Captain Graves was outside with the Governor.

"We never discussed prisoners," Captain Graves observed. "Why let this one live?"

"We found no trace of a raiding party, Captain," Tyndall informed him. "But this savage. He claims to be alone and takes credit for all deaths."

"Animal!" someone shouted. A chamber pot was emptied on the savage's face. It splattered against him, catching Philip and Guthrie in its wake. The two men scattered to get way from the debris, leaving the savage to stand alone, dripping with shit and piss. He stood straight, face angled downward, shoulders raised toward his ears, but did not move a muscle.

"Mrs. Smythe!" Captain Graves barked and she was dragged back toward the store house wailing. "Be gentle with her, sirs, I beg you," Graves called back. Lawrence grimaced at the stench and raised an arm to his nose. The savage was suddenly struck with a rock. It was an accurate shot. It sent the savage stumbling backward.

"Put him in the church," Graves said. "See he's not killed before we can speak to him."

"You would desecrate the house of God!" Reverend Woods cried, pushing to the front of the crowed.

"I'll clean him up first, Reverend," Lawrence promised. "We'll keep him in the back."

Reverend Woods sputtered. He was red faced and blotchy. He went waddling toward the church.

"The Indian will not be touched!" Graves ordered the people gathered. "Not until I have spoken to him. Is that understood?"

The people stared back blankly, but he trusted his order would be obeyed.

"Tyndall, Clarke, Podmore. I'd like to speak with you first. Lawrence, take Watkins and Guthrie and put him in the church."

Lawrence examined him, looking for a place to grab onto him.

"Over here," he ordered, motioning to the savage. He walked along without trouble. "Guthrie, go get two buckets of water. Swamp water is fine."

Guthrie hurried off. Lawrence stopped them at the door of the church. It had been his plan, regardless of the fact that the Reverend was shouting from the other side of the barred door that the savage would not be allowed in until he was perfectly cleaned.

"Reverend Woods, please, stop shouting!" Lawrence called in exasperation. He scratched his chin.

"Filthy animal!" someone shouted and a boot collided with the savages nose. Lawrence was able to swat the next boot out of the way, but as the rocks began to fly, Lawrence was pelted with stones. Over his shouts for them to stop, Watkins scared them off with a violent swing of his musket. Guthrie came back with the two buckets of water, moving as fast as he could while bearing their weight.

"Don't swallow," Lawrence instructed and picked up a bucked. Without much care of ceremony, he swung the bucket toward him, sending the water into his face with a splash. Luckily, there was little body hair on him, and after a few more splashes of the bucket, he was more or less cleaned off. The Reverend opened the door reluctantly and they got into relative safety.

"Sit there," he ordered the savage and had him sit in the corner, far from the pulpit, far from the pews and altar. People were walking around outside. He could see them from the windows, eagerly trying to peer inside. The savage spoke and Lawrence turned his head. His voice was not deep, though it was not the voice of a boy.

"Stop talking," Lawrence ordered and leaned against a window sill. He closed his eyes. He was tired. He had no idea how the savage wasn't. The savage fell silent and leaned his head against the back wall of the church. The door swung open abruptly and Lawrence jumped to attention.

"Take off his boots," Graves ordered. Watkins moved to obey. Tyndall and Pod followed him. His boots were removed and a frightened looking knife remained strapped to his calf with leather straps. Graves shot them all a withering look of disapproval.

"Podmore," he beckoned and crouched down before the savage. The savage looked at him with widened eyes, head tilted back. As Graves spoke, Pod translated for him simultaneously. The savage's dark eyes darted between the captain and the bushy haired, fur clad translator.

"Where do you call home?" Graves asked first.

"I have no home," the savage answered through Pod.

"Everyone has a home," Graved answered.

"I have no home," he repeated.

"What is your name?"

"I have no name."

"We all have names," Graves said with a tight smile. The savage pondered a moment.

"I had a name, but that is not who I am anymore. I have no name."

"Then chose one or I will chose for you," he answered.

"Enkoodabaoo," he said. Graves blinked. He turned his head to look at Pod.

"That is a name," Pod said. "He who lives alone, roughly."

Graves sighed.

"I am not calling you that."

"That is my name."

"How about Charlie? I like that. I'll call you Charlie."

"What does Sarah mean?" he asked Pod directly. Everyone was silent a moment.

"How do you know that name?" Graves was the first to recover.

"What does it mean?"

"How do you know that name?" Graves asked more firmly. The savage, for some reason, looked at Lawrence. He stared at him until Graves snapped his fingers in front of the savage's nose. "Have you seen the Englishwomen that were taken?"

"White women. Yes," he answered.

"How many?"

He waited, eyes darting from side to side.

"I am hungry," he answered.

"Answer the question."

"I am hungry," he repeated more firmly. Graves smiled. It was as though he was smiling at an old friend. He reached out and gently patted his cheek, stroking the skin like he was a long-lost son finally come home. The Indian was as confused as the rest of them. He rose and took a few steps away from the savage on the floor, watching them curiously. He spoke softly, despite the savage not knowing the language.

"Clean him up, get him a warm shirt to wear, and bring him to the governors' dining room. Give him a good meal. We'll talk once he's warmed and fed."

He tossed the savage's boots back to him went to leave. Philip stopped him at the door.

"That savage killed Bart –"

"And will soon be repaid in kind," Graves said curtly. "Lawrence was wise to bring him here. I have found, torture rarely works, but a smile and a hot meal, people start to talk."

"And then we'll put a noose around that savage's neck?" Lewis asked. Graved frowned in disgust.

"Why waste the rope? I'm sure there's more than one man here that's handy with an axe and many more that are more than willing," he answered. "Lawrence, you'll oversee him? I need someone I can trust on him."

"Sir," he agreed.

"Fear not, Lawrence. If he knows about Alice, we'll get it from him," Graves assured him. Lawrence smiled and gave a not of thanks. The Captain left the church with the Governor and Pod.

"Guthrie, give him a clean shirt," he ordered. "Watkins. Get another bucket of water?"

"I only have my church shirt," he answered. "I don't want to dirty it on a savage."

"Does anyone have a shirt for him?" Lawrence asked. Philip, Lewis, Watkins, and Clarke blinked. Lawrence shook his head and unfastened his belt. "Guthrie, go get me a shirt. I'll give it back washed and cleaned."

Guthrie ran off. Lawrence tossed his doublet to the side and removed his shirt. He cut through the rope at the savage's wrists. He watched Lawrence closely.

"Put it on," Lawrence directed. The savage looked quizzical. "Put it on."

Guthrie returned with a fresh shirt. It was dirtier than the one he had just taken off. Lawrence put it on, and as he tugged the shirt back on over his head, the savage was following suit. Lawrence redressed. Watkins came back and put the bucket of water before the savage. He ducked his head in the water. He left it there for a while, bubbles springing up to the surface. He pulled his head back and scrubbed his face and head with his hands. He leaned back and wiped his face. He grimaced.

"Up now," Lawrence said. He bent down to wrap an arm around his upper arm. They walked from the church to the governor's house without drawing much attention. Lawrence was thankful for it. He didn't need a chamber pot emptied on his only shirt. "Sit here."

He put him down at the spot at the table with a pint of beer and a bowl of old stew. He knocked the bowl. "Eat."

The savage ignored the wooden spoon and raised the bowl to his lips. He sucked it down and reached for the beer. Lawrence sat down and waited for Pod, the Captain and the Governor. They entered just a few moments later with a fresh loaf of bread.

"Our friend was hungry, I see," Captain Graves smiled. The savage paused, watching the newcomers with suspicion. He lowered the cup slowly. "Podmore?"

Pod stood in corner of the room with crossed arms.

"Eat some bread, please," the governor said, pushing it toward him. The savage grabbed the entire loaf, snatching it away as if he thought it was a trap, and then ripped the top off to bite into. "Let me start with the hard question… did you take part in the slaughter?"

"No," he answered. He picked at the bread. "I hadn't proven myself yet."

He seemed ashamed of it.

"Wonderful. Then if you just answer my questions, we'll bring you out into the woods, and let you be on your way."

The savage narrowed his eyes as it was spoken back to him.

"What questions?"

"Why the slaughter?" Graves asked.

"You're on our land," he answered.

"We were invited. By  _your_ leader."

"I'm not important. I don't know," he replied.

"Will you tell us about your village?"

The savage lowered his gaze. He ripped off a piece of bread and put it between his lips.

"I don't want to talk about that," he mumbled.

"How old are you son?"

"Sixteen winters."

Graves nodded and smiled.

"Let's talk about something else then. On the day of the attack, some women went missing. We don't even have bodies to burry. Now, you said the name Sarah earlier. Was she taken during the fight?"

The savage considered a moment. He picked at the bread nervously, placing little bites between his lips.

"Enke… enkedabo…" Graves flushed red. He got the savage's attention despite the horrid pronunciation. "Do you know a Sarah?"

He nodded. Lawrence felt his heart leap into his throat.

"Thatcher?" he asked. "Sarah Thatcher?"

"Hair like corn," the savage said. "Eyes like the sky."

"That's Sarah Thatcher! I'd bet my life on it," Lawrence cried, voice breaking with excitement. Graves raised a hand to silence him.

"Any others?"

"Ask about a woman and her son. A woman and a little boy. Hair the color of corn. Ask him."

"Lawrence please," Graves said. The savage was looking at him. Graves snapped, drawing the savage's gaze back.

"Pod, ask about Lawrence's wife and child."

"Three women live in my village. No children were taken."

"To your village? Some child may live then, yes?" Lawrence asked, crouching down beside the savage hopefully. The savage stared a moment before shaking his head sorrowfully.

"No children were taken," he answered. Lawrence dropped his head and pushed himself to his feet. Every ounce of energy had left him.

"Lawrence," Graves called with concern. Lawrence waved a hand and settled in the corner. He hardly listened to anything else that was said. He stared at the floor, eyes glazed over, pounding hard the only thing in a hollow ribcage. He left, knowing only two things. The first; the boy would not be killed that night, he was forthcoming, though Graves felt he did not share all he had to share and would spare him a few days more. And the second; his wife and child were dead.

"Master Dansby," Mrs. Hammond asked. "Master Dansby, you look so pale. Are you unwell?"

"Mrs. Hammond. Might I use your bedroom for a short while? I must lay down."

"Certainly, Master Dansby."

Lawrence entered the room. He slammed the door shut. Before his finger tips left the wood, his face contorted and water sprang to his eyes. He sat down at the edge of the bed, put his face in hands, and wept.


	29. XXIX

XXIX

Megedagik swatted the flap to the side in dread filled frenzy. His muscles trembled beneath his fur clad body. She was sleeping amongst the furs, a small fire illuminating the three most important faces in his life. She had the children with her, wrapped securely in her arms, as if they might be snatched away in the night and lost to her forever. The warrior dropped to his knees before his family.

His son's forehead was warm as he brushed the thick black hair from his eyes. He did the same to his daughter, leaning down to place a kiss to her forehead.

"Papa?" Ahote asked softly, eyes fluttering open, clouded by sleep.

"Hush, my sweet child, go back to sleep."

"Yes, papa," the boy answered, letting his eyes flutter closed. He was reacquainted with sleep just a moment later. His eyes settled on the palest face amongst the furs. He carefully leaned over Ahote to place a kiss to her mouth. When she did not awake, he was firmer. Her eyes fluttered open as he pulled back. It took her a moment, but the second her sleep glazed eyed realized he was home, she gently removed herself from the children's arms. They went around his neck instead, face pressed to his cheek. He held her close, arms enclosing around her slender middle. Eyes pressed shut, her turned his face into her hair, breathing in deeply.

The exhaustion from the past few weeks, the terrible tension in his bones when his brother informed him what had happened, it fled from his bones, leaving him about to fall asleep in her arms.

"I missed you," she whispered. "You mustn't stay away so long next time."

"I should have been here," he murmured. He pulled back and put his hands to her face. He examined her in the fire light. He could see every little sign of that vicious attack. The bump in her nose. The pale scar to her lip, so faint, you had to really look to see it. "I could have ended it then."

"No one was hurt," she soothed.

"But they might have been. My children. You. A pregnant woman," he moved away from the revel in his disgust without the luxury of her soothing touch. She carefully slipped from the furs and crawled to him. She put on some water.

"Kesegowase believes it was People of the Pine. Revenge on Askuweteau."

"If it were People of the Pine you'd be dead," Megedagik answered. "They attack in raiding parties of five or more. You'd all be dead. Kesegowase lied to you."

There was silence.

"So, it was him," she murmured. "You know I… I thought it might be."

"I leave tomorrow," he said. "Early, before the children wake. Let Ahote think my return was a dream."

He looked over at his sleeping children.

"Leave?" she asked. "You've just returned."

"I have wrongs I must right."

He stood.

"I must go speak to Askuweteau."

"No!" she cried softly. She grabbed his hand and pulled herself to her feet with his body.

"Wait until after the baby comes. It is not long now. She should not do this alone," she pleaded. He collected her hands in his.

"You could have died. My  _children_  could have died." He gripped the back of her neck and forced her gaze to his. "I know not how your husband conducted his business, but  _no one_ hurts my family. I  _protect_ my family and whether you like it or not, you  _are_ my family. And I am going to bring you back his head."

Her lips parted as she examined him. His grip on her neck was bruising, his eyes set ablaze. She pressed her lips together, a long breath escaping her nostrils. She took one of his hands from her face and clasped it gently between hers.

"A few hours till morning still," she whispered. "And as I have said… I missed you."

He stepped closer and placed his lips back to her mouth. He kissed her tenderly.

"I miss you too, woman," he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. She lowered herself to the ground, gently pulling him along with her. He patted her thighs gently. She opened them willingly.

Her arms secured him to her tightly. Their bodies pressed close together, their breath mingled, and for a few moments there was not a force on Earth that could have taken him from her. But all too soon he was pushing himself to his feet. She watched him redress in silence, eyes pensive.

He knelt down before her once dressed, weapons rattling around him. His fingers caressed the beads of the necklace he had given her before departing the first time.

"I will not be gone from you long," he promised. He took either side of her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. "And when I return." He pressed his forehead more firmly. "It will be with his head."

"Come back to us soon," she whispered, her hands covering his.

"I will."

Her hands lingered as he pulled himself free. He kissed his children goodbye. He paused in the doorway, eyes lingering on her. She simply stared back. He tore himself from her, leaving the warmth of hi home, precious sleeping family within, for the raw, damp mist of a cold winter night in the land the white men named Virginia.

He walked down the path to Talisa's hut, but as he poked his head inside, he did not see his young companion. Talisa was sleeping, The Pale One close by, belly swollen. It would be here soon. The white half-breed. He pitied the child. It would have a hard life.

He ducked out of the lodge silently and walked back to the gate. The guard opened it for him, reminding him once again how much trouble he could get in if Powhatan found out he was opening the gate at night, for any reason. He crept along the dark trail toward the exile's little lodge.

The night was dark. Clouds blotted out the stars and kept the moon from view. His eyes adjusted, but the young man was still just a dark shadow in the middle of his camp, hunched over in front of the unlit fire.

"This wasn't People of the Pine," he said, voice low in the darkness. Megedagik walked over and sat across from him. "They put notches at the end of the arrows. They have three black lines where the tip meets the shaft. This is one of ours."

"It was him," Megedagik said. "It's the only way they survived."

He nodded grimly. He threw the arrow to the side angrily.

"I can't fucking protect her out here," he lamented, pushing himself to his feet. "And just because it wasn't them this time doesn't mean they won't come back."

"I will talk to Powhatan –"

"No." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "No. It's a matter of honor."

"Help me do this and you will have your honor back."

The young warrior considered. He shook his head.

"I've took part in countless battles… raids. I've brought back invaluable information. Helped subdue three fucking uprisings. I slaughtered a baby in its crib, put a knife through its heart and still none of that was enough. Helping you track down one man no one but you and yours care about will make no difference. I'll be outside the walls my entire life."

"That arrow was imbedded in a tree, two feet from your woman's womb. You child inside. Don't think he wasn't aiming for her."

"I'll help you," he said. "For Sarah. For the Maskaanna. For you. But not for me… it'll make no difference."

Megedagik stood. He slapped Askuweteau on the shoulder. He went into the tiny lodge and laid down. It would serve no purpose to go out now. He struggled to sleep, so close to his family, lying in a cold damp lodge. At some point Askuweteau climbed in beside him. He sighed deeply, lying down on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

He was in a better mood in the morning. Neither man said anything to the other as they out back into the wilderness.

They traveled south.

The skies had opened up. It rained nearly the entire time. The air was wet. Cold. It was the worst kind of winter. When snow came, it was dry. The cold didn't seep so deeply into your bones. Once it got in, it would never leave you. Not until you got inside before a hot fire, had a hot meal, and enjoyed the warmth of a good woman.

The two men knew how keep alive in such conditions, but it did not mean they were immune to the misery of it. They took turns cooking and hunting. Askuweteau had a skill for tracking, and thank the Spirits for it.

They edged around a small embankment, crossing a little creek on the slick rocks, open to the pouring rain, he spotted it with eyes like a hawk.

"Hey," he called, jumping around the rocks, careful not to wet his feet. Megedagik joined him, crouched down at the edge of the river. Megedagik joined him. It was a soft impression in the mud.

"That's fresh," he said, pulling off his gloves and gently poking the mud.

"A foot print," Megedagik said, not quite sure it was an actual print. Askuweteau seemed certain.

"Look," he said, moving forward on bent knees. He moved a branch to the side. There, further up the bank, resting beneath a tree, were displaced leaves. Megedagik rose first, careful to disturb nothing. He found the pit where a fire had been burning. They had tried to clean up, but they had not done a careful job of it.

"Megedagik," the young man called again. Megedagik looked up from the pit. He was holding the remnants of a feather between his fingers. The kind from the arrow that almost gutting the young warrior's pregnant wife. Megedagik took it from him. Slowly, a smile crept across his face. He reached out and cupped the boy's face, slapping affectionately.

They nodded, he dropped the feather, and spread out to look for more tracks.

The tracks were feint, but Askuweteau had the scent and tracked better than any wolf he had ever seen. Within a half hour they found the next camp. The man was clad in buck skin from head to toe. Megedagik waited for him to turn around, heart pounding violently against his ribcage.

Finally the man turned, showing a face with both eyes. His excitement drained from him and he was left with rage. He exchanged a quick glance with Askuweteau and moved forward. They were not quiet; they made o attempts to quiet their advance. The stranger turned in surprise. He raised his hands.

"Just a fisherman friends," he greeted.

"Where is he?" Megedagik asked. The stranger frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

"Room for two," he answered, jerking his head toward the lean-to. "Where is he?"

"Not here," the stranger answered, guise dropping. He was suddenly deadly serious. "Left three days ago."

"Where?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"He's lying," Askuweteau said. "Look."

Megedagik looked to the fire. Two dirties bowls and cups left around the fire from breakfast.

Megedagik removed his knife from his hip. The stranger fell backwards, empty hands lifted. He was fighting age, but no older than the Pale One. Youthful and frightened.

"Please, I'm not a fighting man. I fish."

"What are you to him?"

The stranger's eyes darted back and forth between them.

"He's my brother," he answered.

"Where is he now?"

"He left."

" _Where_?" Megedagik asked. The stranger swallowed thickly. His eyes continued to dart. "Where!" he screamed.

"I don't know!" he cried. "He left and said he'd be back tomorrow. I was just supposed to wait here. I swear!"

"He's lying," Askuweteau said. Megedagik nodded. He knew where he was going. He walked toward him, dagger in hand.

"Where is he?" Megedagik asked again. "Tell me where he is, or I'll carve out your eyes."

The man looked in horror to Askuweteau.

"Don't worry. It doesn't kill you," Askuweteau said dryly. Megedagik dropped to a knee and grabbed the man by the throat. His eyes widened and the blade was pressed to his eye socket.

"Where is he?" he asked again.

"I – I don't know. He left."

He pressed the knife into the eye socket. The man wailed. A terrible, scratchy scream of agony as he dug the eye from his head.

"Where is he?" he repeated. "Tell me or you lose the other one!" he screamed.

"He went back! He went to the village!" the man screamed. Megedagik moved backward. The man clutched at his face.

"What village?"

"The village. To kill the witch! He said he was going to kill the witch!" he wept, rolling onto his belly and moaning.

"When did he leave?" Megedagik asked. The man was too busy moaning. "When did he leave!" he screamed. He grabbed him by the shirt and rolled him back over. He pressed the knife into his cheek. Blood oozed from beneath his skin.

"This morning!" he cried. "He left this morning. Just this morning."

"How soon after dawn?" Askuweteau asked.

"Four hours."

"Four hours?"

"I don't know!" he cried, "There's no fucking sun! I think it was."

"Maybe a two-hour head start," Askuweteau said as Megedagik got to his feet. They ignored the wailing man. "They won't leave the walls."

It sounded more like a question then a statement, and there was fear in his voice. Megedagik took one last glance at the wailing boy on the ground. Not an ounce of pity made its way into his heart.

"Let's move," he said. The two made off quickly. Their cold joints ached as they ran through the forest. Both slipped at one point or another, coating themselves with muck along the river banks and streams. Both knew they wouldn't leave the walls. Neither would leave walls. Neither.

But they ran. Ran with burning legs and burning lungs and neither would stop until they saw those pretty white faces safe within the village walls.

* * *

"I'll kill him when he comes back," Sarah told her, placing the water pitcher on the ground. "I'm all but ready to burst and he's been off for God knows how long."

She lowered herself to the ground with a little grown, hand behind her on the bench to help steady her. Alice's smile was one of both sadness and a kind of melancholy nostalgia. She remembered being where Sarah was now, with both William and Jane. Pregnancy was an amazing thing. A woman could hardly go through a more miserable and joyous experience all at once. She envied Sarah in a way.

"It won't be long now," Alice said. She smiled as she accepted a cup of tea from Rowtag. It was raining out. The days were raw and cold, but it didn't touch the inside of the lodge. The fire burned brightly. Children played in the corner with Talisa. Samoset was sucking on his pipe with his eyes closed, but the occasional grunt at something the girls said let them know he was awake. Rowtag was etching a club with a dagger.

"For two fortnights you've said that," Sarah scolded. She leaned back and placed her hands on her belly. "He should know. It's around that time. If he's not here, I'll kill him."

"Still a bit to go, sweet child," Talisa comforted.

"It is Megedagik's fault. What type of bear are they looking for exactly?" Sarah asked. "One with a horn on its head? A white bear?"

Alice said nothing. She glanced at the children. She met Talisa's eyes briefly but quickly looked down. Sarah's soft little grimace. She shifted. Alice's brow furrowed but she said nothing. She continued to work. She was making gloves for Megedagik. She wanted them to be finished by the time he returned.

Another grimace escaped Sarah.

"Are you alright, child?" Talisa asked.

"Just some pains. It's nothing," she dismissed. "If he's not here when this baby comes, he can't be mad at me when I give it a name he doesn't like."

"You do not name a child upon birth," Samoset rumbled.

" _We_ do," Sarah informed him. He grunted and sucked on his pipe. "Mansi, honey, bring me that brush?"

The little girl brought it to her. She leaned in close, cupping Sarah's ears with her hands. Sarah smiled and nodded. The little girl settled on the bench behind her and began brushing the long blond hair. Some time passed. Alice kept a close eye on Sarah. She closed her eyes and grimaced, though she did not make a sound. It was sustained. Her eyes remained closed and she pushed her hand into her stomach.

Alice pursed her lips and pushed the needle through the last of the fingers. She began to count once Sarah opened her eyes again. She was beginning to cook for dinner. An actual moan escaped her and she slapped the knife down on the ground. She hunched over, frightening Mansi, and everyone in the lodge looked at her. Alice glanced up for only a moment before examining her gloves. She'd have to add beads to them. Shells or frills.

"Seven minutes about now," she said. "Sarah stand up."

"What? Seven… no," she said. She leaned back and touched her lower back.

"Sarah, stand up," she said again. Sarah pushed herself up to her feet with a sigh.

"You've dropped," Alice said with a little smile. "Baby won't be long now."

"No I, no, Talisa said it's too early," Sarah denied. Talisa was up on her feet with a smile, hand on her stomach.

"Babies don't wait, child," she said happily. "Samoset, the red raspberry leaves. Put on the water."

"No but… if its now then maybe… maybe…"

"Sarah,  _no_ ," Alice said. She put her gloves to the side. She was at Sarah's side and gently guided her down to the floor. "Oh, Sarah. This is a happy day."

"I'm going to have a baby," Sarah whispered to her in English. Alice's smile widened.

"You're going to have a baby."

"I'm going to have a baby," she laughed. "Talisa I'm going to have a baby."

"The baby!" Ahote cried in English, clapping his hands happily. "The baby is coming!" He jumped up and down, bringing his knees to his chest with every explosion into the air. Alice hoped it stopped raining soon. The boy needed to get some of this energy out him.

"Will it be pale like you?" Mansi asked. "Will it have blue eyes?"

"Oh, I don't think so, sweetheart," Sarah answered, stroking her cheek. Mansi looked disappointed. "But maybe."

Sarah looked to Alice and spoke again. "I'm going to kill him, Alice," she vowed. "I swear it to you."

Alice giggled and placed her hand to Sarah's stomach.

"I cannot wait to meet it," Alice murmured. "Shall we make a bet? I see a handsome little boy meeting us today."

"If it's a girl, Alice, I'm going to name her Margaret Jane. Ahanu can call her what he likes. It will be Margaret Jane. Or Thomas William."

Tears came to Alice's eyes but she smiled through them.

"Those are fine names," she whispered. She held Sarah's hand tightly.

"I wish my mama could be here," Sarah said. "She'd be crying already. You remember how she was."

Alice only gave a bright smile and blinked back at more tears.

"I used to think God had forsaken us," Sarah admitted. "That'd we'd done something. I used to pray every night, asking him what we'd done to make him so angry. But he couldn't have been so angry with me, because he made sure I still had you. Now I'm afraid to pray to him. I've been so angry with him in my prayers. How can I ask for strength now?"

"Sarah Thatcher, how unbelievably Puritan of you," she teased lightly. "God made us imperfect. He is not angry with you and he will see you through this."

"I think ooooooooh," she moaned, moving her head back. "Oh! Oh! Alice, please! My cross. You must fetch it. I must have it when the baby comes. I made it. The necklace for him. To keep him safe. Please you must fetch it."

Alice looked around.

"Where is it?"

"At our lodge. Outside. Please, Alice. We must let God know he's a Christian child," Sarah begged.

"God will know," Alice assured her.

"Alice, I beg you," Sarah added. Alice nodded.

"Alright, alight," she said, getting to her feet. "A moment. Talisa I will be back in a moment."

Talisa nodded, but was busy pouring some tea for Sarah. No one thought anything as she hurried out into the rain. She hurried down the path. The village was empty. Everyone was inside. The guard at the gate stood as she hurried by.

"Maskaanna, I'm not supposed to let you leave!" he called.

"Just a moment, Arank! Sarah is having the baby!" she cried happily, never breaking her stride.

"Maskaanna come back! I can't leave the gate!"

Alice waved after him. She hurried on down the path. She would have to tell Arank not to inform Megedagik she had broken his most important rule.

She made her way to the lodge and the rain worsened. It was cold, but she hardly felt it. She was too excited. She rummaged around in the lodge, cursing herself for not asking Sarah where it might be. She continued to rummage. Finally, she found it. A tiny wooden cross, crudely made, tied to the string of leather. She shook her head in amusement.

She glanced around for a blanket or something to cover her head with on the journey home, but found nothing. She looked out across the tiny clearing and found Ahanu's workshop. Draped across the table was an old swatch of leather. She hurried across the clearing and grabbed onto it. She whirled around, ready to run back, and froze.

"Thought I was going to have to get into the village at night somehow. Slit your throat while you slept."

Nothing was said. She remained under the roof of the workshop, save from the rain. It pattered loudly against the roof, against the hard dirt of the ground. He was soaked head to toe but he did not care. Rain pattered against his half-shaved head.

"Have you come to murder me?" she asked.

"I've come to finish it," he answered. He raised a vicious looking club with sharpened arrow points attached to the curve in the wood. "I'm going to kill you, skin you, and use your hide for a leather handle."

She swallowed thickly.

"Maybe not in that order," he answered. His one remaining eye was large and wide. He looked absolutely crazed. But he was. This man was a beast. A vicious animal.  _Savage._

"Nothing to say?" he asked, eyebrows lifted. She blinked. He stepped closer. She reached out, seizing the closest thing to her. She held it out in front of her, arms trembling. He paused to laugh, eyes running over the hatchet in her hands. He'd still have more reach.

"You won't win a second time," he told her. "You know that."

A tear slipped from her right eye. She just wished she could have seen the baby. She wanted to know what it would be. Her lower lip trembled. He began to advance again, a snarl on his face. She waited, heart pounding. She wished she'd been kinder to Megedagik. She wished she had told him she had already forgiven him before he left. He didn't need to leave. In truth, she hadn't really known until this very moment.

He continued toward her. He came to the edge of the shop and raised his club. She darted to the side with speed and dexterity she did not know she possessed. She slid between the posts and grabbed the edges of the table. She flung them toward him. It did not hurt him, she didn't think she even hit him, but it succeeding in stunning him, even if only for a moment.

"Witch," he cursed, kicking at the table violently. She turned to run. He leapt over the table and came chasing after him. She went to the lodge, but instead of running passed, she circled around it. She stopped half way around and pressed her back to the lodge wall. It was not done to trick him or to hide. She knew he wouldn't think she simply disappeared, whether or not he really thought she was a witch.

She waited and listened. It was difficult over the rain. Water drops were getting into her eyes. He came around the side of the lodge and she swung the hatchet. It caught him off guard again. He stumbled back, raising an arm to defend himself. The hatchet stuck into the wall. She tried to wrench it free but it was stuck.

He moved forward and she fled backward. He jerked it free with ease and came stalking toward her.

"It was going to be fast," he told her. "Now I'm going to do you slow."

She did not wait to listen to him. She ran back for the workshop. Tools scattered the ground, none as good as the hatchet. He laughed as he approached her. He flung the hatchet into the ground. The blade sunk into the wet grass. He trudged through the fire pit.

She grabbed onto a hammer. It was a stick with a rock attached to it. She held it up again, eyes wide. His lips twitched.

He suddenly charged her. He bowled into her hard, knocking her flat on her back. All the oxygen was forced from her lungs. He straddled her. He raised his club. She reached for the hammer but her hand could not find it.

"I could kill you now. Like I did your brat," he told her. He lowered the club down slowly. It tapped her skull. She reached for the hammer with both hands on either side. He was unconcerned. His hands closed around her neck. No pressure was applied. He simply looked down at her.

"I don't know how you did it the first time," he said, voice hardly heard over pouring rain. "But this is just pathetic."

His hands tightened. She tried to breath in, but oxygen would not pass her throat. She clutched at his hands. She dug her nails into his skin. It was if he could not feel it. Her face turned red. Her eyes swelled wide. She made a sickening clicking noise in her throat. Her lungs lit on fire. Her legs kicked. She saw spots.

His hands relaxed. Oxygen came back into her lungs in a rush. She was attacked by a violent fit of coughing. He was breathing hard. His own face was read. She could hear him panting over the rain. She looked side to side for the hammer. She found it a few feet away. Her finger tips barely brushed it when his hands tightened again. He squeezed hard. His lips pressed together tightly and leaned forward, using his weight to apply more strength.

Again, he released her as her vision began to turn black. Bile rose in her throat and lungs continued to burn. She slapped at his loosened hands weekly. He readjusted himself on top of her, using his own legs to press down on hers and help subdue her rapidly weakening attempts.

"You're an animal," she somehow got out. Her voice was raspy. "An animal with a black heart."

His face warped into a snarl and he closed his hands around her throat once again. He squeezed hard. He jerked her head forward and slammed it back on the ground. He did this two more times before he released her. He brought his hand back. It came down hard across her cheek.

"I curse you," she told him. He blinked. She saw real fear in his eye. "Everyone you love will die," she rasped.

"You shut your mouth, white whore," he said and slapped her viciously.

"If you kill me, they all die. And you, you'll die alone –"

"Quiet," he hissed and grabbed her throat again. He squeezed. His face was read. His muscles trembled. Her nails scraped the stone head of the hammer.

_Maybe she'll name a girl Alice now,_ she thought.  _Margaret Alice? Margaret Jane Alice._ She liked that the best.

She slapped at him with the hand not reaching for the hammer. She had to reach across her body, but she found the other eye. She clawed at it. He jerked back on instinct. He recovered quickly but it gave her time to inch to the side and grab the stone end of the hammer. She dragged it closer, and just as her face began to purple once again, she wrapped her fingers around the handle.

She had very little strength. Her strike was weak, but it did the job. He staggered back, falling onto his bottom slightly stunned. She got to her knees and swung again. She missed, but caught his nose. She heard the sound of the nose crunching. She stumbled forward. She tried to lift the hammer but her body was too weak.

He cursed. Blood gushed from his nose. She lifted the hammer and swung. She got him on the jaw. He fell to the ground and moaned. She stumbled. The hammer fell to the ground. She hunched over to grab back onto it. Her feet were unsteady beneath her as she staggered toward him.

She was panting hard. Her throat and lungs burned. She raised the hammer.

"Alice!"

She froze. Her weak muscles quivered under the weight of the hammer. Megedagik stood at the edge of the clearing. Ahanu was just behind him. Alice lowered the hammer. He was still moaning on the ground. His jaw was off to the side. It was sickening to see. She felt nothing as she looked down at it.

"Your wife is giving birth," she told Ahanu. She looked back up to meet his gaze. His eyes widened, lips parted. He looked to Megedagik. The seasoned warrior did not turn around but gave a single nod.

"Go."

The younger man was about to run.

"Wait," Alice said. She walked over to the workshop and beneath down. She examined the little cross. Ahanu looked frantic as he waited for her to speak.

"Bring this to her. Put it around the baby's neck when once it is born. It'll make Sarah happy."

Ahanu took the cross from her, examined it, and bolted. She watched him go. Her eyes lingered after him, but eventually, her eyes went back to Megedagik. He stalked toward her slowly. He made a quick assessment of the moaning man on the ground before looking back to her.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I just wanted to get the cross for the baby."

He stopped in front of her. He cupped her face.

"You are," he said, eyes boring into hers, "a true warrior."

He stepped backwards, leaving her with the hammer. She looked at the man on the ground with the broken jaw. She saw her little baby, her beautiful, towhead little baby. She heard the sound of his skull cracking beneath the weight of that hammer. His father's hammer.

She took small, jerky steps forward. He was like a lame animal. His jaw was broken. His nose was on the wrong side of his face. He moaned. She felt nothing for him. No sympathy, empathy. She hardly even felt hatred.

She pulled the hammer back and swung. She caught him on the cheek. More bones shattered. Blood spattered across the wet ground. His arms gave out and he collapsed on the ground. He tried to lift himself. She dropped to her knees. She bent her elbows and held the hammer behind her head. She swung down hard. The stone hammer caved his skull in. It was a vicious crack. The same crack she heard from her little boy's skull.

He collapsed. There was no more movement. A choked sob escaped her. She lifted the hammer again and brought it down. There was a butcher back in England. She used to sit and watch him prepare the cuts of beef for sale. The wet, slapping sound of his hammer against the raw red meat. That's what she heard now.

She lifted the hammer again and brought it down. She did it again. And again. And again. And again.

She stopped when she couldn't lift her arms anymore. Her muscles failed. Her head hurt. Her eyes were heavy.

She was covered in blood as she fell backward onto the ground. She gazed at the body. A pulverized, bloody mess of cracked bones and mashed flesh.

She choked out a sob. It wasn't regret. It wasn't remorse. It as a rush of emotion she didn't know she had within her rushing out of her all at once. She looked at Megedagik. He was staring at the body with a thoughtful gaze. He turned to look at her. She tried to smile. She only choked out another sob.

He scooped her up into his arms. She collapsed into him. She was so tired. He carried her in silence. Arank's eyes grew wide as he saw them approach the gates. He sputtered out words neither one listened to. She pushed her hands beneath his furs to rest on the buckskin shirt. His body was warm, his heart steady. Her eyes pressed shut tightly. The tears that fell were silent, and they washed his blood from her face.

Before they arrived at the lodge, she turned her face upward, letting the rain wash her clean.

He put her down on the furs and set about starting fire. Neither said a word, and she wrapped her arms around her knees. The fire lit, Megedagik sat, staring into the flames for a few long moments. She stared at him.

His head turned. His eyes found hers. She waited for him to speak as he settled down beside her, soaked to the bone, both of them, neither sure of what they wanted to say, or how to say it. He settled on touching her face with the slightest touch of her fingertips.

She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes. His palm flattened against her face and she turned her lips to caress his calloused skin. When her eyes fluttered open, her face was still pressed to his palm.

"Hassun?" she whispered. She reached up with her aching limbs. Her fingers threaded together at the base of his neck and she pulled him closer.

The kiss was tender. Weak. She pulled back to stare into his eyes. They both searched each other. She pushed her mouth back to his. She pulled back to look at him again. He continued to stare. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but no words came. She pulled him closer again. It wasn't really a kiss. It was a hard, violent press of her mouth to his.

Again, she pulled back to look at him. It bubbled up within her as she looked at him. She blinked back her tears, but they fell anyway. She wrapped her arms around his neck. She licked the tears from her lips. She couldn't say it. She wanted to. She felt it. But she couldn't say it.

His hand, large and warm, strong, protective; it touch her face. It gently smoothed out he dripping hair. She pushed her mouth to his again. Her hands grabbed the sides of his head and squeezed. Her sobs broke out against his lips. She clutched to him. He collected her in his arms.

His arms tightened around her and he rocked his body side to side. She wept, but it was unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was an agonizing, excruciating ripping open of the soul, and while her heart remained open, bare, like the flesh had been torn away and the tendons of the muscle were laid open to the elements, she felt a stunning sense of absolute bliss.

How long she lay there in his arms, she was not quite sure. Soon the tears stopped. Her hands clutched at his arms as she sagged against him, head in his lap. She'd never let him go. His hands stroked her forehead gently. She'd never relax the fists that clung to his body.

Somewhere across the village, a baby was crying. The father bit back his joy and reached out with trembling hands to secure the cross around the tiny little neck. The mother wept with joy. The baby, bloody, slimy, perfect, was placed in her arms by a loving surrogate grandmother.

She held it to her breast tightly, amazed such a love was even possible.

_Margaret,_ the mother whispered.  _Margaret Jane Alice._

_**End Part Two** _


	30. XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for not updating. I completely forgot about updating here. Hopefully the three relatively large chapters all in a single day makes up for it! 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I love feedback as always.

_**Part Three: June 1** _ _**st** _ _**, 1623 – October 31** _ _**st** _ _**, 1624** _

_**XXX** _

"Oi! Charlie! I need lifting with this, yeah? Be a good lad and come on over."

The boy turned without a word and bent down with baker to lift up the heavy crate. He had taken the clothes they'd given him, but he did not wear them write. He refused the doublet. He wore his blouse untied and untucked. His stockings had holes in them and no one could keep him in a pair of shoes. But with a steady diet, he'd turned into a bull of a man in just a few months.

"Thanks lad, have yourself a drink," the baker said, slapping him on the forehead. He fetched a cup and turned the spigot of the barrel. He had himself a drink and went on without saying a word. He had been called to Governors house. He wasn't scared anymore. He'd be out in less than a half hour and he'd go to Mrs. Headly's where she'd give him cakes and tea and make him write things down in a little book.

"Charlie, are you going past the armory?"

Charlie shook his head. He was dismissed with a wave of his hand. He arrived at the governor's home and let himself in. He sat himself down at the long table in the feasting area and waited. He watched the clock move on the far side of the room. Ten minutes passed before the man called Captain Graves stepped into the house.

"Good morning, Charlie," he greeted. "Feeling well today?"

Charlie nodded and shrugged. He did speak, he just didn't like to. No one seemed to mind that much. Only Mrs. Headly ever got mad at him for staying quiet.

"You've been here some time now. People are starting to get used to you around here," he smiled. Charlie leaned forward and picked up a spoon put out for his tea. It was brought in just a moment later. He examined the spoon. "We gave you some time to adjust. You see, we don't want to hurt you. But I will."

Charlie stared at him as he stirred his tea.

"I'm a soldier and I have to protect these people and I know you know a lot about those villages. Now, I just need it for defense. You see, we aren't going to hurt anyone, I assure you. So, if you could just tell me a bit about your village."

Charlie raised his spoon and watched the little ripple in his tea cup.

"Charlie," he said severely. He raised his eyes back to the captain. A little plate of cakes was placed in front of him. He shoved it between his lips in a single bite and grabbed another. The captain sighed and leaned backwards. "Will you at least tell me about the women? We have men here who are missing their wives and daughters."

Charlie felt a bit of remorse. His lips parted and he thought of those he'd left behind. Pale blue eyes that still haunted him.

"I've already told you," he answered.

"Yes. Yes. Sarah Thatcher, and two other women whom we can't identify based on your descriptions. But you must know where the others are."

"Different tribes," he answered. "I don't know."

It was the truth. He didn't know. The captain scrubbed his face with his hands.

"I should have just hung you when you were dragged in here," Graves said, pushing himself up to his feet.

"Wouldn't be right to do it now," Charlie agreed. Graves stared at him, gaze hard. Charlie plopped another cake between his lips. Graves laughed and shook his head.

"Goodbye, Charlie," he said and walked out the door. Charlie ate one more cake and left the large house. He gladly helped Anna Marshal carry a pale of ale to the tavern. He didn't like his lessons with Mrs. Headly, but she fed him, housed him, and she reminded him a little bit of his mother. She'd lost her son during the massacre. Sometimes, hen she called to get his attention, she'd call him Thomas. He didn't mind. He never pointed it out and to him, the name Thomas was as foreign to him as Charlie. He wondered if that was how those women felt when they gave them new names.

He went to his lessons. He had to use the clock to tell time randomly throughout his lessons. He had no desire to learn, but it made Mrs. Headly happy. Speaking their language, learning how to eat at the table like a gentleman. He still didn't know what that word meant, but he knew the governor and the captain were considered gentlemen, and they lived in the bigger houses.

"Mistress Headly," a boy popped his head into the house just before evening. Charlie was listening to Mrs. Headly read from the bible. He learned the stories, but he didn't believe them. He never told Mrs. Headly or anyone else that. When he did pray to higher forces, they were the spirits that guided them.

"What is it, Jimmy?"

"Captain Graves wants to talk to Charlie at the Governors house."

Mrs. Headly's face drained of color. Every day that passed, she was sure it was the day Charlie would be killed, but the dark-skinned boy knew better. She sent him off with damp eyes and told him that if he accepted the Lord's true way, all would be well. When he returned, she always touched his cheek, hands linger in his face, and fixed him a nice meal. Charlie stood but Mrs. Headly grabbed onto his wrist.

"Why?" she asked. "Why, he was there just this morning."

"Don't know, ma'am."

Charlie pulled away with a smile and patted her head. He left the home and the boy followed him. He asked him questions, but Charlie didn't answer. He walked into the dining room and froze, shutting the door and closing it in the boy's face.

Seated at the table were a few men. The governor, the captain, and a few other soldiers. He took his usual seat, all silent, and waited. A part him wondered if he really was going to die today, or at the very least, if they'd begin his torture.

"Charlie, if we were to try and speak to your king, would he speak to us? Would we be received."

He thought a few moments. He could not see how answering that could put his tribe in danger.

"If you brought him tribute," he answered. One of the men spat onto the table. The governor's eyes widened in horror.

"We're not offering tribute to that fuck," the man said. Charlie's eyes darkened.

"I didn't bring you in here to  _speak,_ " Captain Graves scolded. The man fell silent, but he met Charlie's scowl with a snarl of his own.

"Could we trust him to honor a parlay? Where we might speak. Simply speak?" the governor asked.

"Parlay," Charlie repeated.

"A temporary truce, it lasts only as long as the meeting and both parties get safe passage to and from," Graves added. Charlie considered them suspiciously. "It's not a trap," he vowed, seeing his concern. "We would send a messenger, to be received by your king, and try and set up a meeting. These negotiations can take months, because both parties must feel secure. We need you to tell us  _honestly,_ if we sent a single, unarmed messenger, would he be killed."

"He would need to bring tribute," he said again.

"Will you listen to the fucking question you idiot savage," he snapped.

"Philip!" Graves shouted and slammed in his hand onto the table.

"He thinks we're going to honor his savage, murdering king? –"

"Get out now, if you foul this up, I swear to bloody –"

"It's how you do it," Charlie called. Both fell silent. "Parlay. You bring a tribute. If he accepts, he takes the food from the basket and he and messenger eat it. He sends the messenger back with instructions."

"And if he does not accept?" Graves asked.

"He sends the messenger back without accepting the tribute."

Graves nodded.

"Would you escort our messenger?" Graves asked. "See to his safety?"

He considered. It might be his chance to get away. Or a chance to do right. He nodded.

"I can do that."

"Captain, with all due respect –"

"Philip, say another fucking word, and you're out. Understand?"

The man nodded.

"Thank you, Charlie. I'm probably going to need to ask you some more questions to tomorrow. For now, you can go home."

He stood and looked over the men's faces. He exited, receiving a smile from the Captain and a nod from the governor. When he stepped back inside, Mrs. Headly greeted him with damp eyes and cupped his face.

"I fixed you some beer," she told him, patting his cheek. He smiled at her and followed her into the sitting area to read her bible.

* * *

Lawrence examined his nails as they waited for the boy to get out of earshot. No one dare speak before Graves. Even the Governor kept his mouth shut.

"If we get someone in the village walls, we can get a better idea of their numbers, try to find out where their fields are, get an eye on our women. We tell them we want a truce. We won't move into their lands. We will ask them how far they will sanction us to go –"

"But –"

Graves raised a hand and spoke louder.

"And we will ask only in return that they let us plant our crops. In return, as a show of good faith, the women are returned to us. Once we have our women, and they're planted their crops, we attack."

"With what men?" Lawrence asked.

Graves reached into his pocket. He retrieved a peace of parchment.

"By August, we will have not only new shipments of supplies and men provided by the company, but fifty additional soldiers, with weapons and uniform, provided by His Majesty, King James."

"We'll never agree to meeting terms prior to their arrival."

"No, we will not," he agreed. "But that boy will have escorted our messenger safely there and back before he finds out we're receiving reinforcements for attack. As of now it looks like we're merely hoping to resettle closer to the fort."

"When he comes back and sees, I doubt he's going to keep his mouth shut the next time he acts as an intermediary –"

"That's why we'll kill him," Graves answered. Lawrence had been picking at the table. His eyes darted upward. "I have no stomach for torture, and we'd get nothing from him without it, but a use for him I have found, and when that use is complete, he answers for Bart's death, and all the others he had killed."

"Mrs. Headly won't much like that," Thatcher grumbled. "Taken the boy as her own son. Jimmy was his age when he was killed."

"Mrs. Headly's anger is no concern to me. Other than the feelings of a woman, what other concerns have you all?"

"They're spread out," Pod said, leaning forward. "It's a confederacy. Not one tribe. Impossible to figure out numbers from one village. And their fields are spread out. Again. Not just one place. Won't find out enough."

"Noted. We will be sending out scouting teams. Well trained. Pod, that's your job from here till we make our move. I want them as silent as these savages themselves."

"I can do that," he agreed.

"Thatch, I want everything in the armory recounted, organized. Men drilling twice a day. Not until the boy leaves though. Stick the armory until then. I want numbers of every bullet, every drop of powder."

"Captain," he grunted.

"Who goes as messenger?" he governor asked.

"If it isn't someone of at least minimal importance, he'll be insulted."

"Fuck me if I care whether or not he's insulted," Philip mumbled. Graves ignored him.

"We have to accept the fact that whoever we send, there is a fine chance they'll never come back," Graves said. "These savages cannot be trusted. And just because that boy keeps his mouth shut and does what he's told, does  _not_ mean he is our ally. Now I trust every man in this room with this task, save those I have just give a job to, and obviously excluding Philip. And I know my order will be obeyed, but first, I ask if anyone would –"

"I'll go."

Everyone turned to look at Lawrence. He looked back up when he received no response. Graves looked unsure. He was staring at the portrait of the King across the room.

"You said you trusted us all, save Philip," he said. Philip leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest, but did not protest. "I'm not a vengeful man. It does not mean I do not want vengeance. I want to do my part for the company and the King. I won't jeopardize that for my own vendetta. I won't do anything stupid. But I'm not afraid to die. I'll go."

"Someone thinks a lot of themselves," Tyndall said. "How would you honor the savage King?"

"Call me captain and send me with a bounty. He won't know I'm nothing," Lawrence murmured. He continued to pick at his nails and think of his dead wife's pretty hands.

"It's decided then," Graves said. "Captain Dansby, come here tomorrow after church, and we'll discuss the details. Tyndall, work with Pod and the Boy. Come up with a bounty he'll accept. You're dismissed. Francis, could we hammer out details tonight?"

"Yes, Captain," the governor said. He called a servant for tea. Slowly, the men filed out of the house. Lawrence received a few pats on the back and slaps on the shoulders. He stopped in the middle of the courtyard and stared up at the sky. He stayed there till morning.

* * *

It hadn't been till that spring that they realized they were of totally different status within the village, though neither one really minded. Sarah went back to the fields, though it was easier now. She was allowed to take breaks when she saw fit, so long as she got her work done. Alice remained in the village. She continued to do the washing and stitching for others, though Megedagik did not like it. In addition, she cooked for the elderly at the center of town and helped organize the storage houses.

Alice enjoyed her days. She minded Sarah's baby. Precious little girl with creamy skin and dark eyes. She had Sarah's dainty nose, her pouty lips and round face, but Ahanu's eyes and ears. Mansi was loved the baby, though she did not go a day without asking when her hair would turn yellow and her eyes blue. Ahote took his role very seriously, whatever that role might be. He liked to hold her. He'd sit, shoulders stiff as a board and lips pinched together tightly. He held her very carefully, and mimicked Alice and Sarah, cooing and fussing with her clothes.

The natives had an ingenious method of carrying children. She could bring Margaret almost everywhere she went. She sometimes brought her to the fields when it was clear she would accept no food but her mother's breast. Luckily now, the baby was accepting of mashed vegetable paste.

Megedagik returned about midday with a rabbit for her. He was still sorry about that day, though he only apologized once. He was not a man to wallow. She had followed him the next day to collect the body. The face was too damaged to collect a scalp, but he sawed off the ear and gave it to her. Sarah understood her absence at the birth of her daughter. She was gracious and kind, saying God had blessed them both that day.

"Alice," he greeted her. He put the rabbit down beside her and reached for the baby, propped up against a stack of her finished clothing. He enjoyed children. She'd seen him interact with his own children and knew he was a good, loving father, but she had never seen him interact with children not his own, and certainly not a child so young. He sat down across from her with the baby. He held her beneath the armpits.

"She will be beautiful," he observed. He nodded thoughtfully. He sat her down in his lap, holding her up against an arm. He shook the rattle in front of her. She giggled and reached for it. Alice smiled, observed a few moments more, and then looked back to the shirt she was mending.

"How long until she has a name?" Alice asked. "A proper name?"

"She has names," he answered. He gently bopped the child on the nose. She erupted into giggles. He snatched the rattle away before she could latch onto it with her fragile little hands.

"Nicknames."

"When her personality becomes clear, she'll be given a name. She has her personal name, and that is what matters."

"I have heard others call you Sunukkuhkau."

"As a boy I enjoyed crushing things," he explained. "That was my first name."

"And Hassan?"

"I was a strong baby. Large. Like a stone," he explained. "What does Alice mean?"

"I don't know," she answered. He frowned.

"You don't know?"

"It's just Alice," she shrugged.

"Let me make you some tea," she said. Before she could get up he shook his head.

"I do not want tea," he answered.

"Food?"

"No," he answered. "I thought we might go look at the stars tonight."

"At the spot? That spot?" she asked. Amazingly, a blush came to her lips.

"Yes," he answered. Their eyes locked. She nodded, a shy smile on her lips. He put the child down, propped up on the furs, content to play with the rattle. He sat down next to her and took her hands in his. He gave her hands a lot of attention. She knew they were ugly, and she knew he only pretended, but every time he brought her fingers to his lips and told her how much he loved her hands, a smile came to her face and her affection for him grew. She watched him kiss each finger. He cupped the back of her head.

"My warrior woman," he murmured and kissed her. He left her side and went into the lodge, leaving her softly smile through her work. He took a nap and awoke after Ahanu and Sarah came to collect their child.

"You must rest," he told her, taking his seat across the fire.

"No need. I thought I might go to sleep early tonight," she teased. He gave her a severe look. She giggled.

"A prisoner cannot refuse her master," he reminded her, and though to the outside observer, he looked frightful, she knew he was teasing beneath his gruff exterior.

"But a wife might refuse her husband," she replied. An odd social construct, but one they practiced all the same. He stared at her from across the unlit fire. His face was blank but his eyes were intensely curious.

"Yes, she may," he answered. Her lips slowly curved into a little smile. She pushed the bone needled through the leather, eyes still on his. She glanced down to ready the next stitch. Her eyes started back up to him. She looked back to the shirt in her hands.

"Then it appears I will be going to bed early," she answered, looking up only once she had finished speaking. A small smile of his own curled the right side of his mouth upward.

"It appears you are," he answered. She bit her bottom lip to stifle the growing of her smile and focused on her stitching. She had no intention of going to bed early that night.


	31. XXXI

XXXI

Lawrence had hardly slept since they left the fort. He did not trust his travelling companion. The first night they made camp, Lawrence had watched him closely. He held his stew in his hand, spoon passed halfway to his lips, and observed critically as he removed his breeches, thinking nothing of stripping down completely directly in front of him. He disappeared into the woods, naked for nearly and hour, and returned with strips of buckskin, weapons, and a jar of black paste.

He put on his breechcloth, attached his leggings, and placed his weapons at his side. He kept his shirt on, but wrapped his biceps and forearms with straps of leather to keep the shirt from billowing around him. He retrieved a knife, dumped the black paste onto his hair, and scraped the blade across his head.

"You had a cache," Lawrence observed. Charlie looked up, head half shaved.

"I have caches," he answered. He continued to shave his head.

What bothered Lawrence most was that there was absolutely no assurance now that the savage wouldn't simply run off, or, kill him and then run off. Lawrence hadn't lied, he was not afraid of death, but he did not want to die without at least speaking to the savage king. He needed to at least die doing some good for the colony.

"You will bring me to your village then?" he said.

"I would have left already if I wasn't," he replied. "I gave my word."

Lawrence still did not sleep at all that night. Though the village itself was but a three-mile hike from the Fort, the terrain was difficult and they were waited down the lavish gifts Captain Graves decided to send the killer King. The young savage had said the gifts were suitable.

Tea from India and Asia, a set of silver utensils crafted in France, a portrait of their King. A bushel of apples, a cask of ale, and a few bottles of wine. It made what should have been a day or so journey, last nearly a week. Even as they neared the village, Lawrence's anxiety that his companion would betray him did not pass. Every time they made camp and the young savage disappeared into the wilderness, Lawrence was convinced he would not come back. He always did though, and usually with a fish large enough to split between the two of them.

"We should stop here," Charlie said about midday. "We're close. We'll approach the gates tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?" Lawrence asked. His heart pounded at the sudden news. His hands grew sweaty. He did not want to push this off.

"So that I can tell you how to meet the King," he answered, dropping the pack from his back. "Unless you hope to die? Then we can go now."

"Tomorrow morning?" Lawrence asked.

"First light, I will go."

"We," Lawrence corrected. " _We_ will go."

"I should go first," Charlie disagreed.

"We go together," Lawrence pressed. The savage did not push on the subject. He may very well know better than he about the sensibilities of this savage king, but being left behind while he went into the village did not sit well with him.

They sat in silence. Charlie took out some fish to eat from the day before.

"How likely is it I'll be killed tomorrow?" Lawrence asked. Charlie looked up and met his gaze. He was silent far too long.

"It's not likely," he answered, surprising him. "He might cut off your ears and tongue, and have you sent back as a declaration of war. But that is unlikely too."

Lawrence stared at him, hoping to find some sort of sick amusement on his face, but he found nothing.

"Is that how your people treats emissaries?"

"I don't know that word," he answered. He got up to his feet. He crouched down beside Lawrence and drew a circle in the ground. "There is a gate here. We will be brought in this way. The King lives in the main lodge here. This is where you will be received."

His accent was thick, his word choice poor, but Lawrence got the gist of it.

"Go in, go to your knees. You do not speak first. Don't ever put yourself in a position where your head is higher than his. Call him Powhatan Opechancanough. Dot not misspeak his name. It will cause great offense."

"Powhatan Opchan – Opchanac…cano…"

The youth stat down with a smile across the fire. He jabbed the stick at him.

"Why we go tomorrow. Opechancanough."

"Op..Opchanaco..co-canough…"

"Opchanacanough," he said again.

"Opchan.. Opachan…"

"O. Pech. Uh. En, Kah. No," he said slowly.

"O, pech, uh, kah, no," Lawrence repeated. "Opecha –"

"OpechAN-cano," he said again. "He'd have hacked off your ears by now."

Lawrence reached into his pocket and retrieved some tobacco. He pressed it on the inside of his lips. He sighed again. By the time the sun set, he almost had it right.

* * *

The children had been asleep for a few hours, but they lay awake by the fire, speaking softly, laughing gently, and kissing tenderly. He told her stories of his home. She told him about England. He spoke a bit about his wife. She told him a little bit about Lawrence.

She was able to talk about William now. It hurt, yet now she found some joy in it. He listened intently when she chose to speak about him, but the topic of conversation never lasted long.

She giggled softly as he told his story. He told her how he got her name. It did not bother her as much as she thought it might. Every little girl grew up dreaming about her handsome soldier going off to fight. He wasn't the King's soldier she had dreamed of as a little girl, but a warrior he was none the less.

"I took him by the throat," he said, wrapping his massive hand around her slender neck. She smiled at him, tracing a little scar on his shoulder. He did not have many scars, but once a night, she asked him about a new one. "He raised the blade and aimed for my heart. If it weren't for a sudden clumsy squirrel, it might have been the end of me."

"I do not believe you," she laughed. "A squirrel come to the rescue of the Great Megedagik?"

"I was not so great at fifteen nor was I Megedagik then. He came falling from the branches, hitting every single one as he came down," Megedagik continued. He made whistling, thwacking sound with his lips as he pointed to each imaginary tree between them. "It brought him to a halt just long enough for me to move to the side. I was able to bring my hand forward," he demonstrated with the hand still around her throat, bringing her up from the furs a hair and then pushing her back down gently, "and forced his head to the back of the tree. I wrenched the dagger from his hand, and sunk it into his heart, where he meant to kill me."

"I hope you gave the squirrel some of your provisions?" she teased. He shook his head gravely.

"The squirrel was dead when it hit the ground," he said. He rustled with his necklaces and pulled one forth. It was a necklace with a four set of little brown feet and a tiny little skull. "But I have kept him with me all these years."

"This is the squirrel?" she asked. He nodded. "You lie!" she accused with a laugh and touched the skull.

"I do not," he vowed.

"We must give you another name," she said. She ran her hands over his scalp. It was smooth. She'd shaved it tonight. She made care to spend a god long while rubbing the sweet-smelling oils into his head. "Squirrel Man," she grinned.

"That is not a name," he said gruffly.

"I make it a name," she informed him. "My brave Squirrel Man. Saved By Squirrel?"

She had to smother her giggles as he reached for the folded bear belt and rested it over her face. She squirmed beneath him, though he put no pressure to the blanket. She tossed it to the side and slapped at him gently.

She smiled as she accepted his kiss. It was soft and tender. She sighed happily and closed her eyes as his mouth left hers and caressed her cheek and jaw.

"Hassun?" she whispered. "I have something to tell you."

"It can wait," he grunted. His hands were sliding up her thighs, parting them for him, and settled in between them. His lips were roaming between her neck and ears. She smiled in contentment. It could wait.

The door flap suddenly whipped open. Both started. Megedagik had his club in his hand before Alice was even aware someone had stepped inside. It was Noshi, the gateman. Alice frowned at the intrusion and covered herself with the bear pelt. Though not naked, and not in a state of undress that Noshi would bat an eye at, she did not like others seeing her so exposed.

"Megedagik. I apologize, but you must come. Powhatan calls you."

"Powhatan?" Megedagik asked. He put the club down.

"Yes. He said it was urgent."

"What is it?" Megedagik asked, scrambling to his feet.

"He did not say."

"Are we in danger?" he asked.

"I do not believe so. He is only gathering his counsel."

Megedagik looked at Alice.

"Please, do not leave until I return. Keep the children inside."

"Of course," Alice said with a brow furrowed in concern. She moved over to sleep closer to the children. "Stay safe."

He almost left, thought better of it, and returned to her. He put a kiss to her forehead and touched her hair.

"Alice," he said, looking directly into her eyes. "Do not leave this lodge."

She smiled at him.

"I won't."

"Promise me," he pressed.

"I promise," she vowed. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned up to give him a kiss. What was meant to be a quick peck turned into a longer kiss. "Be safe. Come back soon."

"I will," he promised and stood.

"Or I might have to come looking for you," she added with a teasing smile. He stopped in the doorway and glared at her. She giggled and pulled the blanket up to cover her body and fell back into the furs. She decided to wait up for him to return.

* * *

Megedagik was in a bit of wonder as he stepped inside the lodge and found young Milap seated beside the King, speaking with rapid excitement. The King waved for Megedagik to come closer as he listened. He sat on his throne, Milap seated beside him, telling him in detail what the inside of the white man's village looked like.

"You saw this?" Megedagik asked. "When… How?"

"Hush, Megedagik," Powhatan said, raising a hand. He had apparently already ascertained that information. He went on. He was tripping over his words. He could not speak as fast as his mind raced.

"They sent me here with a man that is going to ask you for a truce. They want to meet with you and work out territory boundaries. To plant and to harvest and to move back and live. He brought you a tribute, I told him what to bring, it is a good tribute, they want to meet with you. Their chief said you are to give the answer and then we'll go back and then we'll agree where to meet to talk to you."

"Are these terms of surrender?" Powhatan asked.

"I do not think so. Not really. They want to move back out and harvest. Their village is on a swamp. The water is bad. They can't really grow crops there. But there are more of then than we thought. They come in giant boats and bring crates of food."

"Weapons?" Powhatan asked.

"Not that I ever saw them unload, but they were careful when they let me outside. It could be hidden." He was about to continue but Powhatan raised a hand to silence him. Noshi stepped inside with Kesegowase. By the time Powhatan had gathered his thoughts and spoke again, Samoset was entering the lodge.

"Milap?" Samoset asked. Milap stood and walked toward his uncle. He looked ready to be struck. He was fearful, tense. He tensed even further when he was wrapped in a tight embrace. Samoset rocked him side to side, squeezing the life out of him. Powhatan observed the exchange but was untouched by the reunion. He had more troubling concerns.

"Milap," Powhatan said. Samoset released him to go speak to the King. He turned his back so that no one could see the tears in his eyes. "Where is this white man now?"

"A mile North. I brought him up past the wolf lands to the east and circled around to confused him. He thinks we're still a half mile south," he answered. "These white men. They aren't that smart."

"That's a wise boy you have there, Samoset," Powhatan said. Samoset turned. He smiled proudly but his face was tight. There were a lot of emotions for the man to process in a single few moments.

"Is it wise to parlay with these white men?" Powhatan asked those of his counsel present. "Or should we simply go in and finish them?"

"I don't think that would be wise," Milap said, surprising everyone and horrifying Samoset. "The village is strong. High walls, and they have about three men on each side. There's more of them now. They're coming from across the sea. In their giant boats. The trees are cleared for up to 100 yards. We'd lose to many before we ever breathed."

"Milap, how did you –"

Powhatan raised a hand.

"You said more men have arrived?"

"Men and women, yes, but mostly men," he answered.

"How many?"

"Fifty since I was taken. Maybe less. No more."

"Fifty…" Powhatan considered. "Megedagik, what do you think?"

"It is worth hearing this white man. To send him back without an audience would be unwise. In order to know what they might do, we need to know what they want. And the boy is right. We might siege the walls, but we cannot take it in an assault. Not if they know we're coming. Whether or not we accept the terms they hope to offer, we can decide when we have more knowledge."

Powhatan nodded. He glanced around at the others.

"Thoughts?"

"I agree," Samoset said. Noshi and Kesegowase nodded their agreement.

"Noshi, bring Samoset, and five men you can trust. Milap will lead you to the white man. Cover his face, bind his hands, bring him in circles. A half morning at least. Bring the tribute here straight away. Make sure he cannot find us again by memory."

Noshi agreed.

"You may gather your belongings, go well armed, just in case. Do not delay long. We do not want the white man to wake with Milap gone. While you ready yourselves, Milap, go inform your mother you're alive. We'll deal with your voluntary exile and the reasons for it when this is dealt with."

"Yes, Powhatan," he said. Samoset slapped him on the shoulder, put an arm around his neck, and walked with him from the lodge.

"Kesegowase, Megedagik, come here," Powhatan said. If they had sat on the bench with their King, their heads would have been elevated above his, so tall were the two brothers, so both sat on the lowered bench saved for his favorite wives. Powhatan leaned down so they could speak in hushed terms, despite no one being in the main lodge. His family slept in the lodge next door.

"After we have spoken with this white man, and we discuss what he has had to say, I want you two to lead two squads to the village. Find whatever possible without exposing yourselves. Do not engage. If you find white squadrons, retreat if possible."

He paused and stroked his lips.

"They will want their women back," Megedagik interrupted. "They cannot have mine."

Powhatan put his hand on Megedagik's shoulder and smiled.

"No fear, my friend," he comforted. "I would not be opposed to providing one in good faith. The Pale Girl, with the child, and the Maskaanna will not be offered."

Megedagik nodded and considered.

"Tomorrow, what should I considering offering? If anything?" Powhatan asked.

They spoke of strategies for a few hours before they were sent back to sleep. He wanted them there by first light. He was pleased when he stepped inside and found his pretty pale wife seated up by the fire, cheek resting on her knees, lazily poking at a log with a stick.

"You should be sleeping," he told her. She blinked sleepily at him and smiled.

"I wanted to make sure you are alright," she answered. He sat down by the furs and she leaned against him, closing her tire eyes.

"I am well," he responded, cradling her.

"What happened?" she asked. He was silent. He looked into the fire. "You do not have to tell me if you do not trust me."

He stroked her arm with his fingertips. Her eyes were closed and she was about to fall asleep.

"Your village sent a messenger," he murmured. Her eyes fluttered open. "He will be here tomorrow."

She lowered her gaze to process the information.

"Do you know why they come?" she asked.

"No," he replied simply. His necklaces rattled as she dug out the squirrel skull. "You may stop being my wife whenever you wish." He paused as she put her finger into the tiny eye socket. He examined her finger nails, felt so much affection for her he thought he might vomit. "But you cannot stop being my prisoner."

She said nothing. She examined the squirrel skull closely.

"Thank God for this squirrel," she mused, as if she had not heard what he said. She said nothing more. She continued to examined the skull. He rested a hand on her thigh. His thumb gently caressed the skin. At some point in the night, both fell asleep.

* * *

Of all the disorienting and jarring wake-ups Lawrence had experienced in his life, this was by far the worst. It was from a deep sleep that he was ripped awake.

He was being shouted out, a musty old sack was forced over his head, and a knee dug cruelly into his chest. Whatever weight the savage above him possessed, it was squarely forced into his breastbone.

"If I brought you any further without their knowledge they'd have killed you for a spy," his savage companion tried to reassure him. "He's never have let you leave the village."

Lawrence could not answer. He was struggling to breath. His hands were bound with thick coarse rope in front of him. They bound him far too tightly, but he did not make a single protest. He hardly even struggled once he knew death was not imminent.

He heard the voices speaking with each other in conversational tones. His guide's voice was among them. Lawrence did not know if he should feel betrayed. He had believed his throat might be cut in the night, this was a minor betrayal in comparison.

He was yanked up onto his feet. He was not related cruelly. It seemed once hooded and bound he was no threat, and these savages had no desire to inflict needless torture. He was held in an iron grip as their camp was packed up. There was not much to do, they had brought little other than their bounty of tribute.

It was frightful being forced through the forest blindly. He tripped a few times, fell more than once, and the savages were not all that concerned for his well being, but he never came to harm.

"Opechanaco," he panted, lungs burning painfully. "Open -"

It was the weight of the sack on his head that made it so difficult to breath. He had always been in fine shape, but the speed in which they moved over so long a period of time, and with the bag on his head, was too much.

They stopped a few times. It was clear the tests were for him and not the savages. He was in awe at how fast they could move with their load. He was put down on the ground with an unceremonious shove and the sack was yanked up to his nose.

He sucked in the fresh air greedily, how, flushed cheeks basking in the summer air, and the sweat dripping down his face cooled his baking skin. He only wished he knew this would be his fate sooner. He would have shaved.

A canteen was put to his lips. Gloriously cold water was poured down his throat by a kind soul, and he drank as much as would be given.

"Are you alive?" his companion asked and he discovered the source of his water. He sputtered as too much went down his throat and droplets hung in his beard.

"I am not certain," he answered. His companion laughed.

"Not too far now. You will be brought directly before the king. Remember. Kneel. Do not speak first. Do not hold eye contact if he is silent longer than a few moments."

Lawrence nodded and continued to catch his breath.

"The tribute?"

"Coming behind," Charlie assured him. "Two remained to bring the cask. The rest is with us."

Lawrence nodded. There was some conversation between the savages. Charlie remained beside him, holding the sack up to his nose so he could breath. Charlie spoke some in his own tongue and soon they were on the move again.

It felt like ages before he felt the earth shift beneath his feet and he realized they were walking up a hill, on the soft earth of a green field.

"Do not be afraid," Charlie comforted him with a pat on the shoulder. "If he decides you are to die, it will be a fast and honorable death."

Lawrence stomach turned and though it was true that he was ready to die and see his wife and children once more, he realized he was not so unafraid as he had initially believed.

He heard the sounds of children and women. Many shouted, questions no doubt, as they walked into the village. The walk itself to the savage kings lodge was not long, though his legs felt like anchors.

"Charlie," Lawrence asked, voice muddled by the hood.

"Yes?"

"If I say something that will get me killed, try not to translate it, yeah?" Lawrence asked hopefully. Charlie patted him on the back. There was speech in the savage tongue. He heard a flap opening and he was shoved inside.

The air was hot and smoky. No one made a sound, but he could hear the sounds of wood crackling. He was dragged further, boots skidding along the ground, before he was finally thrown down onto his knees. The hood was ripped from his head.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust in the dark, smoky room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the imposing figure sitting upon his bench like throne. He was a massive man. Tall and lean, well built, with stone like features and black eyes. Stop his head was a crown of feathers. His torso bare save a wrap from navel to knee.

Flanking Lawrence on either side were men of middle age, many looking to be seasoned warriors. He wondered if this was how it felt to be brought before the House of Lords.

His hands remained bound in front of him. He fought the urge to speak. He hated silence. He always had. Words bubbled up in his throat and it took everything he had to keep his mouth shut.

It was not a concern he might hold the savage Kong's gaze too long. It was impossible to hold, and Lawrence looked down to the floor in front of them. The gifts were already there, laid out before him. All but the cask of ale remained missing and Lawrence wondered how it all got there so fast.

Finally, the savage king spoke and Lawrence looked up sharply. His voice was deep but smooth. He spoke slowly, at least to Lawrence's ears, and simultaneously he seemed both imperiously superior, and altogether bored.

"He welcomes you," Charlie said, kneeling down beside Lawrence. He got to his knees, his hands on his thighs, and gave a low, submissive bow to the man before them. "And thanks you for your gifts."

"I -" he began but broke off. His voice was weak. A choked grunt. His throat closed and he cleared his throat. "I am humbled and honored to be in your presence."

The words were bitter on his tongue. He looked back up from the ground and found the cold, unfeeling eyes of the man responsible for all the misery in his life.  _You killed my son,_ he wished to say,  _you killed my Alice._

Charlie translated for him. The savage king spoke again.

"He wishes to know your status."

"My status?" Lawrence whispered back to Charlie.

"Within your tribe."

"My title?" He asked. Charlie seemed just as confused.

"I am a captain for my people," Lawrence said. "Captain Dansby of Kent."

That sounded good.

Charlie informed him. The savage king narrowed his eyes, as if he knew it were false. He leaned over and spoke to a woman to his right. He seemed to get counsel from her. Lawrence was almost in awe over such a show of weakness, but no one in that smoky lodge but him seemed offended that a woman was even present.

"Captain Dansby of Kent," the savage king said slowly. Lawrence had heard rumors that he spoke English. The King before him, this man's half-brother, has learned the language as best he could, welcoming the English into their lands... this king had a thirst for blood and war and had never shown an interest in English society.

"Opchanacanough," he greeted. He glanced to Charlie. His companion smiled and gave a nod of encouragement. Lawrence waited, unsure if he should speak or not. He seemed to wait an savage king finally spoke again.

"You May tell him now why you've come. Then he will decide if he will accept the tribute."

"My leader wishes to speak with you," Lawrence said, voice holding more confidence. Charlie spoke, but there seemed to be limited understanding on his face before the translation had begun.

"Our Governor, the honorable Sir Francis, and the Captain of the Guard, Sir Roland Graves, wish to discuss terms of peace, so our people may harvest and live past the walls in safety."

The words were translated.

"He wants to know when the Governor and Captain wish to arrive."

Lawrence swallowed thickly. He looked back up at the king.

"They will not come here, as they do not expect you to go there. We propose a neutral location, where neither is superior and both are safe."

The savage king considered those words carefully. Once again he leaned over to discuss with the woman to his right. Lawrence once again marveled at the show of weakness, sealing counsel from a woman before an enemy. The king straightened and spoke again.

"He wants to know how he should trust you."

"Ours is not the word to be distrusted," Lawrence responded quickly. The king's face twitched. Charlie hesitated.

"Do you wish for me to translate that?" He asked. Lawrence swallowed. He let out a deep breath he had not realized he was holding. He pressed his bound wrists into the pelt beneath him to steady himself.

"No. No. We need only word that he is willing to meet. Negations as to location will take place once the Governor and Captain Graves have word."

The King considered. Slowly he rose from his throne. He was a tall man. All these savages were tall it seemed. So much room to grow in this new world.

He walked down to bounty of gifts. He crouched before the baskets, running a critical gaze over them. He reached out and took a loaf of bread in his hands. He ripped it in two. Lawrence watched him bring it to his nose to smell. He examined it closely.

The savage king outstretched a hand toward him, offering him half the bread. He touched his lips and said in English, "eat."

Lawrence glanced at Charlie, but raised his bound hands to his lips. He bit into the bread, eyes fixed on the savage king. The King watched him eat, waited for him to swallow, and brought the other half to his own lips. He smiled and pulled a dagger from his waist. It was a large, angry looking knife, and in the half second it took for the blade to find its target, he was sure he was about to die.

The blade slid through the rope on his wrists and he was freed. The skin around his wrists were raw, red, and little white bumps beaded with red.

"We ask for a show of good faith," Lawrence tried. Charlie seemed hesitant to translate, but Lawrence said nothing and Charlie spoke. The king lifted his chin, eyes narrowing slightly. He waited. Lawrence did not know if he should speak or not, but did anyway. "You have our women."

He swallowed thickly as Charlie translated. His Adams's bobbed beneath his bearded throat.

"We wish to know they've not been mistreated."

The King stared. His gaze was thoughtful. Lawrence flinched when he raised a hand to snap his fingers. His eyes glimmered with amusement as he spoke. A few men left the lodge.

"He is having the three brought here so you will see them," Charlie told them.

"We estimate over twenty are missing," Lawrence pressed.

"In other villages," Charlie said without translating. "But they'll be treated the same here as there."

Lawrence nodded. He swallowed thickly once again. He looked around at the faces around him, finding none with a friendly stare. It angered him, that they dare show him such contempt after what they had done to him and his people.

"Captain Dansby," The King said, his tone mild. Charlie translated the rest. "A fresh catch this morning."

A tray of fish was brought and laid before him. He didn't want to eat it. He did not trust them. He knew better than to refuse, and reached with his fingers for the fish.

It tasted delicious. However they made their food, they made it well.

"You like it?"

"Very much," he answered. The King removed a sack of apples and examined them. He tossed a few to some of the men seated around them. They sniffed them, biting into them hesitantly. Lawrence marveled at how easy it would have been to poison the lot of them. Yes, he might have died as well, but it would have been worth it.

"You live in the fort?" Charlie asked for the King.

"I do now," he answered. He kept his voice calm, but his muscles tensed.

"You did not?" The King asked. He had a smile on his face. Lawrence would have liked to throttle him. It was clear why he asked. He found it amusing.

"I did not," he answered.

"How did you live?" he asked very bluntly. Lawrence pointed to the scar on his forehead, moving aside a bit of hair to do so. It was faint, but it was there.

"Apparently not all of you have very good aim," he answered. The King laughed, appreciating his spirit, but the sound only infuriated him. He felt sick he was so angry. "My son, a boy of four, was murdered. And my wife. Killed."

The King kept the smile on his face, but turned a bit more serious.

"The price of war is high," he answered. Lawrence was going to answer. Saying what he did not know, but it was sure to have had him killed. Luckily another spoke before he could.

He and the King spoke. Charlie did not offer a translation. Charlie gazed at the other man adoringly. Lawrence looked him over. He looked like the type of man that had killed his fair share. The King spoke familiarly with him. Lawrence reaches for another piece of fish.

A young girl came and wrapped her arms around the King from behind. She whispered on his ear, giggling softly. The King's face showed pure love. He pulled her forward to better look at her with a smile. Lawrence wondered how this King might feel to have her killed in front of him, throat slit or head bashed in.

"She wants to touch your beard."

He looked at Charlie with a frown. Charlie just blinked. He'd made his translation. He had nothing more to offer.

"Um… yes. If she wants."

The King told his daughter. The girl must have been about eight or nine. She came forward and pressed her hands to his beard. Her nose crinkled in disgust and she hurried away, hiding behind her father. The King held her wrist gently s the girl hugged him behind, giggling and pressing her face into his back.

Lawrence wondered if he might feel any sort of satisfaction from killing that child in front of her smug, smiling father. The thought turned his stomach as he caught sight of the smiling little girl peer out from behind her father.

The flap opened. Charlie jumped to his feet, lips parting. He looked almost afraid. Lawrence turned slowly. His own lips parted. The King stood as well, calling to the new comer with a raised hand and a smile.

Her blue eyes were a bit wide. She looked anxious. Her eyes were on the King. Charlie stepped back and lowered his gaze. Soon, her blue eyes found Lawrence. It was not difficult to find him in the lodge.

Lawrence had never seen someone experience such shock in his life. It washed over her face like a wave. She blinked, she stepped back. A sharp intake of breath and a slight shake of the head.

"Sarah Thatcher," he smiled widely. It warmed his heart. It would have brought Alice joy to know her dear friend was safe. It gave him some peace. His eyes dropped to the child in her arms. She had fair skin, but dark eyes, hair black. His smile did not fade, but it changed slightly.

She walked closer to him. The baby fussed and she moved her on her hip. Her opened and closed. She stopped before him. Both stared, unsure what to say or do. Lawrence laughed softly, nervously. An inappropriate reaction perhaps, but it came bubbling up from him none the less.

"Who's this?" he asked. Sarah blinked and looked down at the child.

"My daughter," she said with a scratchy throat. She cleared her throat, coughed, and licked her lips. She repeated somewhat out of breath, "My daughter."

"Oh, Sarah," he whispered. "I am so sorry."

He reached up to touch her cheek. A savage got in between them, shoving him back. He stumbled, nearly falling into the fire. The savage barked at him. He was subdued by a silent raised hand from the King.

"I do not regret my daughter," Sarah answered, holding her close. Lawrence nodded.

"Of course. Of course. Not what I meant."

Sarah forced a smile.

"It is so good to see well, Larry," Sarah said. He gave a pained smile.

"Do you know? What happened to Alice? Did she… did she suffer?"

Sarah looked to be in pain. She held her daughter closer, lifting her to press her mouth to the soft little head covered in dark hair. She kept her face there a moment. She was looking at a savage from over her daughter's head. The savage stared back at her. His dark eyes slowly moved to fix themselves on Lawrence. He was an intimidating sight. Though seated, it was clear he was a large man. Tall and well built. He was draped in jewelry, his ears pierced from helix to lobe. Over his shoulders, draped across a bronze, broad chest, was the pelt of a doe. Brown and spotted with white.

"She has suffered," Sarah answered softly.

He frowned. Before he could process the words, another woman was lead inside. He did not know this woman.

"Sarah," Lawrence tried to get her attention. She sat down beside the savage she had been looking at it, kissing the top of her baby's head. She stared off into space, gently rocking her child.

"Have you come to save us?" the new woman cried in happiness. "Are you taking us home?"

She clutched at Lawrence's doublet and gazed up at him imploringly.

"We will do all we can," Lawrence vowed. He smiled and touched her cheek. He was once again barked at but this time no one touched him. She wept in happiness and wrapped her arms around his neck. He embraced her warmly. It was the reaction he had expected from Sarah.

"She may sit here, while we eat," the King gave permission. He motioned a few spots to his left.

"I am Frances Wright," she told Lawrence. "My husband John, does he live?"

"He may, but I know not," Lawrence said. "But I promise you, we will bring you home."

She kissed his cheeks and continued to weep. A savage soon took her and brought her to sit. Lawrence faced the King. He was moving back up to his throne.

"Will I be able to speak with them privately?" Lawrence asked. "Ask them of their treatment, while not in the presence of their captors?"

Charlie translated.

"After we eat," the King answered. "But you will not be alone."

"Milap?" Sarah breathed. She said his name again, and then cried out in their tongue. Lawrence turned to find who she was speaking to. She handed her child to the savage he had been staring at and jumped to her feet.

"Milap?" she smiled, happy tears in her eyes. She touched his face and placed a kiss to his cheek. Charlie answered her like a shy little boy, voice hushed, head down, smile sheepish. The two conversed in the savage tongue. Lawrence observed, trying to make sense of it.

The third woman arrived and Lawrence heard the sound of the flap open. He turned around to greet the last woman. When he saw her, he momentarily forgot how to breath.

* * *

Alice found him immediately. It was not difficult to find him in the smoky lodge, dressed in a leather brown doublet and black boots. He stood out. It took her a good long while to recognize him. Even then, she didn't quite believe it. She stood there dumbly, staring at him. Her mouth was incredibly dry. Her tongue was too large for her mouth.

The lodge was mostly quiet. One person coughed. Someone was digging through a pot, clanking hard clay against hard clay. She did not hear them. She heard only the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. The sound of her breathing.

"Alice," he whispered. He was as shocked as her. He let out a breath. A breathy gasp.

"Lawrence," she spoke, though she did not recognize her own voice.

"Alice," he said again. He laughed. His eyebrows lifted and his eyes got wet. She walked toward him slowly, legs heavy as rock. She scanned the sides of the lodge. She was not able to find him. "Alice," he said again, laughing more loudly. "If I be dreaming may I never wake."

His hands were warm and damp They cupped her cheeks. The feel of his hands on her skin sent a tremor through her. Her body seemed to jerk at the touch. She clutched onto his wrists, knuckles turning white.

He lowered his head. She tilted her head upward. His lips touched hers, gentle and soft. She closed her eyes as their skin made contact. Her cheeks turned wet as her eyes fluttered shut. Their lips brushed together for only a moment. Her lips tingled at the touch, but it was not joy she felt in her heart.

Lawrence went crashing down to the floor with a violent crash. He landed among the clay jaws in the center of the feasting floor, jams, sauces and teas went flying to the side, staining the furs beneath them. Alice seized Megedagik's arm and pulled it backward with a cry.

"Please, don't hurt him!" she begged. The King ordered as much, with a frightful yell and a terrible scowl. It was Alice the proud warrior listened to, not his King, turning his attention away from Lawrence and back to her. She touched his clean-shaven cheek, rested her palm on his shoulder.

"Please, don't hurt him," she whispered. He reached up and gripped her chin. He looked like he was about to speak. He pressed his lips together.

"Get your bloody hands off of her," Lawrence spit, scrambling to his feet. He fixed his doublet. His jaw quivered in anger and disgust.

"Lawrence," she said, holding up her hand to him. "He will kill you. Lawrence." He tore his gaze away from Megedagik to look at her. "He will kill you."

"Has he –"

He broke off. He looked around the room. His shook his head with the tiniest of jerks back and forth.

"Alice, I have thought nothing but you since we parted. My heart is bursting from my chest. And I have found you, and I cannot even hug you," he said. His voice quivered. The muscles in his cheeks twitched. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat.

"Oh, my Alice," he said. "I love you so. I could weep," he laughed, but only to keep from crying. "I will bring you home, and whatever… whatever horrors they…"

He trailed off. He stared at her. Another rush of air escaped his lungs. His tongue trailed along his bottom lip.

"Where's William?" he whispered. Her eyed turned wet and she fought off the tears with a pained smile and a tilt of her head. She felt the loss of him all over again. He nodded rapidly. "I thought as much." He scratched his upper eyebrow with his thumb. His face contorted and he fought off his own tears.

She walked toward him. She could not help herself. Megedagik did not stop her. Even as she wrapped her arms around Lawrence's neck and pressed her face into his shoulder, and his arms wrapped her around middle, holding her close, he did not disturb them. She felt his gaze on her.

He pulled her back with a gentle touch of the elbow. Alice stepped away from Lawrence. He released her reluctantly. She wiped away the tears from her face and turned into Megedagik. She did not touch him, but she faced him, hoping to draw strength from the mere warmth of his body.

She felt a sudden compulsion to step into his embrace, but she fought herself from doing so. She wrung her hands in front of her. When she turned her face upward her cheeks wet.

"Go sit," he told her. He pointed to the spot he vacated. Sarah stood by Milap, fussing with the baby, but looking to her with deep concern in her eyes. Alice looked at Milap a moment, but wasted no time marveling at his sudden appearance. She noted how much older he looked, how the shaved head suited him, and went to her spot. Sarah sat down beside her.

"Are you well?" she whispered, touching Alice on the back of the head.

"I don't know," she whispered. She shook her head and touched her forehead.

"Shall we eat, friends?" Powhatan asked. She looked up. Megedagik and Lawrence were staring at each other.

"Milap. Tell your friend that he is disrespecting a counsel member."

Milap hurried over to Lawrence and spoke to him softly in broken English. Alice could not hear much, but did know he was speaking English. Lawrence stepped away. Only when he broke eye contact did Megedagik moved back to his seat beside Alice.

She could feel the rage radiating off him. He glared across at her husband, face blank but eyes as hard as stone. To anyone else he might appear stoic, but she saw the emotion bubbling up within him. She reached out to touch his wrist. It took a moment, but eventually drew his attention.

"Calm," she whispered to him. He stared and then looked away. The King had his three present wives look over what they wished and sent the baskets on their way down the lodge.

"Captain Dansby," The King called. "May I interest you some wine?"

A cup was being brought to him. Lawrence hesitated. He looked to Alice as he sipped from the cup. Alice did not believe it was poisoned, but she was frightened none the less.

"Opechancanough?" He asked. "After we eat, I ask that I be able to speak to my countrymen in private."

Milap translated. Alice waited with a pounding heart.

"Milap will observe, but you may speak with them privately," The King allowed.

"Maskaanna, my tea," Megedagik said.

"Hassun, please," she whispered.

He replied with an even curter, "and my pipe."

She reached for a pot of hot water and poured him a cup of tea. As she packed the pipe, she could feel her husband's eyes on her. She handed it to Megedagik.

"Alice," Lawrence tried to speak to her.

"You will anger him only," she responded. "We may speak later."

"Milap, translate for me," Megedagik said. "Tell this white man he may have my woman, if he can defeat me in battle."

Those in the lodge chuckled.

"Do not translate that," Alice snapped at Milap. The young man seemed conflicted. She looked to Megedagik. "If you kill him I will never forgive you," she whispered.

"And if he killed me?"

"He wouldn't," she answered. Those close enough to hear found that marvelously funny. Alice closed her eyes at the sound of their laughter. She looked across the lodge at Lawrence.

"Megedagik, need I remove you? He comes to us in peace," Powhatan said, but he appeared more amused than concerned.

"This man was the Maskaanna's husband," Megedagik explained.  _Is,_ Alice thought.

"I gathered as much. Kesegowase, take the Maskaanna outside. She will do nothing but cause trouble here."

"Please, Opechancanough, Powhatan, let me stay," she pleaded. Kesegowase gently pulled her to her feet by the elbow. Alice did not protest.

"Mighty woman, I am inclined to deny you nothing, but this is a sensitive issue. Please. Go without incident."

Alice did not push. She did not want to embarrass Megedagik. Milap was translating for Lawrence. He looked to be in pain. She tried to give him a reassuring nod but was not so sure how it appeared.

"Maskaanna?" Kesegowase asked her. "Are you unwell?"

"Alice?" Ahanu asked, hurrying over to her.

She did not speak. Kesegowase stopped him from following her. She walked to the edge of the courtyard and plopped down on the ground. She stared out at the trees she could see over the east wall. She was left alone, but only when Kesegowase approached and shooed the curious children away.

It was not too long before they exited the lodge. Megedagik left first, looking grim as ever. Noshi followed, then Milap, Sarah, her child in her arms, Frances, and then Lawrence.

"You are to use Noshi's lodge," Megedagik told her. "Milap will be present, and he will tell me what you say and do."

Alice only nodded, lips pressed together, jaw set. She and Megedagik shared one last quick glance before she followed after Noshi. Sarah handed Maggie to Ahanu, kissing her on the forehead.

"Alice?" Sarah asked again.

"Will you be taking us home?" Frances asked for the millionth time. "Will you bring us home?"

Lawrence said nothing. He marched on. Alice stared at his back. She feared his anger, his judgement, his pain.

"In here," Noshi directed. He flushed his horde of children from the hut. His wives left, arms linked, whispering softly to each other as they commented on Lawrence's beard.

Milap walked in first, then Lawrence, then Frances, then Sarah. Alice walked in last. She had no idea how she might explain herself to him.

Frances and Sarah moved to sit on the bench Frances was asking Sarah if they were going home. Lawrence stepped closer to Alice. She took in a deep breath. He reached out, taking her by the arm, and tugged her to him. He kissed her hard. His arms wrapped around her and held her tightly.

The kiss lasted a long time. They simply pushed their faces together, enjoying the feel, touch, smell of the other. The kiss broke and they embraced each other. Frances had the good sense to be quiet.

"Oh, Lawrence," she whispered. "I am so glad you live."

He squeezed her. She clutched at the back of doublet.

"I was sure you were dead," he breathed. "When I learned no boy was taken. But I felt in my heart that you were alive. I felt it."

He kissed her again. She stood stiff and he pulled back.

"Tell me," he said, addressing them all, but he kept his hands on her. "How are you treated?"

"Grotesquely," Frances lamented. "We are worked day and night. These people… nay not people, animals, these savages, Master Dansby. Absolute savages. I could weep at the thought of it."

"I was raped," Sarah said with amazing bluntness, making Frances' lamentations on simple labor seem utterly ridiculous. "The father of my child killed them and married me."

Lawrence's lips parted.

"Sarah, I am so sorry. Your cousin will be overjoyed to know you live. When you return, he will make an honest woman of you. I promise."

"My cousin?" she asked.

"Captain James Thatcher," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes," she said. She gazed looked down at her hands.

"Did they torture you?" Lawrence asked. He took her hands and examined them.

"No. I've been treated well," she answered.

"Alice," he whispered, the disbelief clear on his face. "Has that man…"

"He protects me," she whispered. "He feeds me and clothes me."

"Beast," Lawrence breathed. "To use a woman's weakness against her to compel such… Forgive me, Alice," he said. "I should have been there for you and William. You tried to warn me and I would not listen. If I had just listened."

His hands cupped her cheeks. She moved away from him. She lowered herself down next to Sarah with aching, trembling limbs. The two linked arms. Sarah rested her head on Alice's shoulders. Alice rested her cheek on her head.

"Captain Dansby? Will you be bringing us home?" Frances asked.

"I hope to," Lawrence said. "Probably not today, not tomorrow, but soon. It is a priority. What we hope to accomplish…"

Alice listened, eyes dry, glazed, and tired.

Alice was taken back to the lodge by Kesegowase. The King wished to speak more with Lawrence and the women would not be present. Megedagik wanted her in the lodge. She agreed without much protest.

"Lawrence," she said. "If I do not see you before you leave, please, be safe, I beg you."

"And you. I love you, Alice," he said. He made no move to touch her but he wanted to. She could feel it in his gaze.

"I love you," she answered. Milap was murmuring softly to Megedagik. He did not react to the translation. His face remained that of stone. She stopped in front of Megedagik before leaving.

"If Powhatan allows us to see him before he leaves, I beg you to let me say goodbye," she said to him. Something twitched beneath his eye, his eyes burned.

"You will say goodbye," he promised.

"Thank you."

"Stay in the lodge," he told her. She looked at him. "Stay in the lodge."

"I will."

She stepped past him.

"I will see you before you depart," she told Lawrence. She tried to smile. He tried as well. Neither succeeded.

The children were not at the lodge. She was happy for it. She did not think she could put on a happy face at the moment. By the time the sun was beginning to set, she stepped outside. She was not surprised to find a guard posted at her door. She wanted to weep.

"You cannot leave, Maskaanna," the warrior said.

"The children, they should be back," she told him.

"They're staying with Kesegowase tonight."

She said nothing and went back into the lodge. She did not know how, but she must have dozed off, for she closed her eyes when she sat down again, and opened them with Megedagik stepping into the lodge. It was dark out. She wondered how much time had passed. He sat down on their furs. She sat on the children's.

"You may stop being my wife whenever you wish," he told her simply, abruptly. She was hurt by the indifference. She understood better when he added, "But you will not stop being my prisoner."

She watched him start a fire. He began to boil some water.

"I never was your wife," she said. Her voice was soft. "You cannot be a wife to two people."

He stared at the water and waited for it to boil. There was silence. Alice hugged her knees to her chest and sniffed. Little bubbles were beginning to come up from the bottom of the water. She wiped a slowly leaking tear from her eye and cheek.

"Do you want to know what I felt when I saw him?" she asked. Her voice was soft and scratchy. He said nothing. He poured his tea. He made a second for her. She pressed her eyes together and asked, "Do you want to know?"

A tear escaped her eye again. It trailed down her cheek. She darted her tongue out the side of her mouth and caught it.

"I was angry," she admitted. His eyes darted up from the tea cups he had been staring at. He did not move his face. "It should have been the happiest moment of my life. My husband lives and he's going to take me home. And I was angry…" she licked another tear from her lip. "Why was I angry?"

He said nothing. She lowered her head. There was more silence. He put the cup of tea in front of her.

"It will calm you," he told her. She picked it up and held it in front of her, breathing in deeply through her nose, but did not take a sip.

"He isn't going to take you home," he spoke again. Alice waited for him to say more. He did not. She stared at him a long time. Her eyes were wet but no tears fell. He did not look up. He stared at the fire, brow crinkled.

"I'm tired," she said.

"Go to sleep," he answered.

She scratched the back of her neck. She wanted to lay down beside him. She did not have the energy to move.

"My bear pelt?" she asked. He looked up, unsure what she meant. She looked at it. It rested beside him, where they had put it after he pretended to smother her last night. She swallowed thickly. She took in a shuddering breath in and a steady breath out. He carried it over to her. She thanked him with a soft whisper. He went back to their side of the fire. She hugged the pelt to her chest.

"Hassun?"

"Yes, Alice?" he asked, voice hardly above a whisper. She waited. She ran her had over the bear pelt.

"Good night," she murmured. She laid down and pulled the pelt up over her shoulder.

"Good night, Alice."

She screwed her eyes shut. She'd tell him she was pregnant tomorrow.

* * *

The morning was windy and cool, though it would grow hot. She exited the lodge to find Megedagik seated by the unlit fire. He stared at the black log, face grim.

He stood without looking at her. She reached out as he made to leave. She took his hand and halted him.

He turned. She wanted to speak but could think of no words. Her vocal cords would not work. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed her hand back.

They walked down to the gate. Lawrence and Milap were there already. Noshi stood off to the side. He was there as Powhatan's personal envoy. He spoke in Powhatan's place.

Lawrence watched her approach. Her heart ached terribly. They stopped a few feet away from him. It was windy out. The breeze felt nice.

"Might I say goodbye?" Alice asked softly. She was looking at Lawrence. It was too painful to look anywhere but at him.

"You may," Megedagik gave his permission. Alice stepped closer to Lawrence. He was looking at Megedagik, hatred in gaze. Alice felt the crushing weight of her guilt wash down over her.

 _I thought you were dead,_  she wanted to explain, but then he'd know. To allow him to think so poorly of Megedagik was shameful, yet to let him think the alternative... that she  _let_ him, this savage, touch her as only a husband should... it was too much. She was not strong enough. Instead, she put her hands on his face. She ran her hands through his beard with a sad smile. She's always loved that beard. He looked back at her, hazel eyes filled with agony at the prospect of parting from her.

"I'll be back for you," Lawrence promised her. "I'll stop at nothing until you're back home with me."

He picked up her hands and looked at them. He ran the pads of his thumb over her ruined fingernails.

"I've missed these hands," he murmured.

"They are ugly now," she mused softly.

"Never," he disagreed, a smile on his lips. "I would kiss them if did not believe that beast would slaughter me here."

"He did not kill William," she clarified, suddenly realizing she had not told him so. "It wasn't him."

"It makes no difference to me," he replied. He gripped the back of her neck and gazed intently into her eyes. "I will save you from these animals. I wasn't there for you then but I will be now. I promise."

She felt a rush of affection for him. Her sweet Lawrence, come back from the dead to rescue her.

"Just be strong a little while longer," he encouraged. "This will all be over." He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, "and we'll make these savages pay for what they've done."

Alice felt painful strain in her heart. She pulled back, her hands on his shoulders, and frowned.

"What do you mean? Have we not just asked for peace?" she asked. Lawrence smiled, eyes twinkling.

"A Christian does not bow to a heathen," he answered. He took a glove from his hand. He handed it to her. "While I am gone."

"He will not let me keep this," she protested, trying to give it back to him. Megedagik would let her have it; She did not want him to see her with it. He pushed it back into her hands. He closed her fingers over it.

"Please," he said. She nodded.

"Be safe. You will be in my prayers daily," she vowed.

"And you mine. Oh, Alice, how can I be expected to part with you now."

"Because you must," she answered. "Or will be parted permanently."

Lawrence glanced up toward Megedagik. Alice closed her eyes. She could not stand the look in his gaze.

"The thought of leaving you to suffer him - "

"It's been a year and more," Alice answered. "I can bear it."

"Not much longer. I promise."

She blinked back tears. She wiped her eyes.

"Go now," she said, holding back a sob. She pushed on his chest weekly, but her hands clutched at his doublet. "Leave."

He removed her hands from his doublet and held them a moment longer. He squeezed her hands gently, letting go only when their arms would stretch no further.

"You come back this time, Milap," she called, sniffling.

"Igasho," he told her with a proud smile. He had been given the name last night by Powhatan. He came to stand before her. She had to look up at him. He had grown so much.

"Igasho," she corrected. She tried to smile but failed. She wiped her face and sniffled. She didn't want to go back to Megedagik. "You be safe, and you come back and see your mother. You can't do that to her again."

"I won't, Maskaanna. I promise," he said politely. He turned and set off with Lawrence. Her husband was walking slowly down the field to the tree line. His head was hunched. Noshi kissed the last of his children goodbye and took up the back.

Alice flinched as she felt the heavy hands press down on her shoulders. he settled behind her, holding her firmly.

Lawrence stopped at the tree line. He turned around to look at her. It wasn't so far. They could see each other early.

She gave a smile of encouragement, though tears leaked from her eyes. He sighed visibly. He gave a nod. He turned around and stepped into the tree line, out of sight.

Megedagik squeezed her shoulders. When she was certain Lawrence was gone, she leaned backward into his arms, tilted her head back on his shoulder, and rested her tired eyes. She knew they'd need their rest for the crying that was to come.


End file.
